


Good Times, Bad Times

by PunkHazard



Series: Kent [10]
Category: Time Bombs (Podcast), Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Pandemic 2020, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, alien doppelgänger funtimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: New York City shuts down and Unit 214 is furloughed indefinitely as of late March, 2020; Simon Teller and Radio Bob are on the brink of eviction; Mark Midland is not who he appears to be.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler, Isabel Lovelace/Renée Minkowski, Simon Teller & Radio Bob, Warren Kepler & Isabel Lovelace
Series: Kent [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1276967
Comments: 39
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quick backstory because I can't ask anyone to read through everything that precedes this:
> 
> 1\. Kepler and Maxwell are alien clones, they intercepted the crew on the way back to earth.  
> 2\. They're decently friendly with the Hephaestus crew, since they teamed up to take down Goddard (as you do).  
> 3\. Kepler and Jacobi got together at some point.  
> 4\. They got a big chunk of money from GF.
> 
> Lots of thanks to @fab_ia, @aranita, @coffeedregs and @fathomfive for throwing ideas around with me & credit for some of the best lines (':

The mood inside 214's squad car is the complete opposite of its usually chipper embrace of death and destruction: despondent rejection of life. Midland isn't in the habit of asking about his colleagues' days, but he slides into the back of the van with their coffees and hands them out. Teller's regular, Radio Bob's monstrosity. "What," he says, arranging himself to sit comfortably on the bench near their bomb robot, "is going on with you two?"

"You didn't get the notice from up top?" Teller groans, "We're getting furloughed. Halftime today and then indefinitely starting next week."

"Nah, I got the memo." In truth, Midland had been hearing chatter about the possibility of a furlough for a while now, tracking the spread of an unprecedented virus as it moved through Europe and finally appeared in the States, then the rapid spread in New York. Once the stay-at-home order came through, he'd battened down the figurative hatches and prepared to be out of a job for a while. Not too many people are planting bombs while everyone's stuck in place. "Kinda expected it, though, with everything that's happening."

Teller heaves a sigh from deep down in his chest. 

"Seriously, what's wrong?"

Bob sighs too, his arms folded over the back of his head where he's slumped across the dashboard of their EOD van. "We're not gonna make rent at the end of the month," he says. "The landlord is gonna evict us _so_ freakin' hard."

He and Teller have been roommates since the beginning of the year, when Teller found Bob sleeping in the back of the van one morning and learned that his lease had ended before he could find another place to stay. Bob'd snuck back in after clocking out and set up with a sleeping bag and a little space heater. While there are a lot of things that could be said about Simon Teller, most of them not very nice, Midland has never doubted his trust and affection for his team. Teller offered to let Bob stay at his place, the two of them splitting rent in a dingy, cramped studio about ten minutes from the precinct.

Midland had _assumed_ they would be fine with that arrangement, but now he reconsiders that, hands clasped over the cardboard sleeve of his coffee. "You two," he ventures, "don't have enough savings for _one_ month's rent?"

"I'm out of friends who can spot me," Teller says.

Bob averts his eyes, looking sheepish. "I blew the last of it on a _really_ good hand last night. Other guy had a straight flush, though."

Midland opens his mouth to ask whether either of them have ever considered taking a personal finances management course, but he closes it before he commits to the question. Teller's crushing debt is really none of his business, and neither is Radio Bob's tendency to blow his paycheck on lottery tickets and online poker. 

"Well," he says instead, "Let's get this shift started."

* * *

Work has, unfortunately, been _slow_. After the fourth hour of being trapped in a van with two moping squadmates, Midland has retreated to the back, a list of their supplies in his hand and eyes occasionally slipping back to the TV they have bolted to the side of the van, where Teller's streaming reruns of Friends. 

After a while, noticing his silence, Teller leans over the center console and turns his head to watch Midland test the clasps and straps of a bomb suit. "Hey, Midland, are you gonna be okay?" He adds, "If you need help, you can stay with me and Bob when we work things out."

It's a little touching, really; Midland might be the newest member of their unit, but they'd adopted him immediately. They're always _trying_ to watch out for him, despite a total lack of the ability to actually do so, and he flashes Teller a grin. "I'll be fine, but I appreciate the offer."

Teller never was good at keeping the envy out of his voice, though; one thing he _doesn't_ have in common with Midland's last employer. "Yeah?" he says. "That's good to hear. I'm happy for you, man."

Bob pipes up next, innocently obtuse. "You have space for two, wherever you're staying?"

Midland was _really_ hoping they wouldn't ask, and before he has a chance to answer Bob, Teller's locked on. "Hey," he says, twisting in his seat to fold his arm across the center console, "y'know, you've _never_ talked about where you live. What's up with that, Midland?"

"It didn't... seem relevant."

"I mean, it's _pretty_ relevant. We've known each other for over a year and I don't even know what borough you live in."

"Queens."

"Queens?" Bob repeats.

"What the hell are you doing all the way out in Queens? How's the commute?"

"Sucks," Midland answers. "Takes an hour and a half each way, bus _and_ train transfers." There's a lot more that he could say about the commute but unlike certain people, he's not really in the habit of spinning a bunch of stories; that just means there's more to keep track of later.

"Ooooof. Must be out in the 'burbs, then." There's a glint in Teller's wide, intense gaze. He and Bob move as one to join Midland on the bench in the cargo area of the EOD van, settling on either side of him. "Where the big houses are."

"Could say that."

"I mean, do you have a couch or--"

"I've got two roommates," Midland interrupts, "and they're not big fans of having people over."

"Look, Midland," Teller says, putting his hand on Midland's knee and leaning forward to look him in the eye, "I think we've known each other long enough for me to be honest with you, and we're _desperate_. If you've got a place for us to crash for-- a week, even, while we keep looking for something, we'd owe you big time."

Pursing his lips, Midland pulls out his phone, tracking down an article he'd read a few days ago. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal for landlords to evict people right now," he says. "Direct from the mayor."

"The contract isn't necessarily... completely legit." Teller looks away from Midland's incredulous expression. "There's a lot of stuff that's not up to code or strictly legal at our place, so the landlord can kinda do what he wants."

"And _so_ many fire hazards," Bob adds.

"What? You're _cops_ , how are you--"

Teller cuts him off with a wave, then leans in, cupping his hand over Midland's ear to whisper a number. 

"Okay," says Midland. "Yeah, that tracks. For rent that low, I'd bunk with Pizza Rat." He rubs his face, hissing through his teeth. "Look, I'll talk to my roommates. There's definitely space, I'm just not sure you can handle living with them." 

"I really appreciate that," Teller says.

From his other side, Bob throws an arm around Midland's neck and squeezes with an ecstatic, "Midland, you're the _best_." 

"Yeah, don't thank me yet."

* * *

Shouldering open the door, Midland drops his work bag by the door, along with the work identity. Jacobi groans as he shrugs out of his jacket, rolling his shoulders as he makes his way through the cramped little foyer of the house and through the living room. The jacket he leaves slung across the back of the couch and he slips into the kitchen to greet his roommate. "Hey," he says, "I'm back."

"You're early," Kepler says, his back to Daniel as he regards the contents of their refrigerator. The thing is huge, and several boxes of food are piled up on the counter next to it. "Dinner's in the microwave."

"Whoa, four-cheese mac. With the fancy aged gouda?" It's still hot; Kepler must have finished making it not too long ago. Jacobi's always maintained that pasta is an ideal delivery vehicle for cheese, and his first bite of it confirms this long-held belief. "Who'd you kill and where's the body you're bribing me to bury for you? 'Cause I'll do it."

"No body." Kepler huffs a laugh, taking a plastic container out of the fridge. He opens it, sniffs it, and puts it back. "Restaurant's shutting down until things are a little more controlled," he explains, "so we sent everyone home with the leftover produce and whatever perishables we couldn't sell or donate. I grabbed the cheeses." 

"Are they--"

"They're already in your vault." 

The Vault-- a walk-in refrigerator Kepler had installed in the garage when he was renovating the house. It was a compromise between letting Jacobi leave his cheeses in their main fridge and disallowing fancy, stinky cheeses altogether. Kepler had put his business negotiation skills to use and framed it far enough away from 'banishing Jacobi to the garage for cheese crimes' that he conceded to a sectioned-off temperature and humidity-controlled space in the garage.

"I could kiss you," Daniel says.

"Hah," answers Kepler, looking away.

Six months ago, Kepler had ended things between them-- at least, the parts that weren't strictly platonic. It was and still is, to date, Jacobi's longest and most stable relationship, and the only one that ended with both parties on speaking terms. There hadn't been a fight or any particular incident-- Warren had simply looked at both their schedules and decided that it didn't make sense for either of them. 

Even earlier than that, he and Minkowski had gone in on an entire building in Midtown together, using a big chunk of both their payouts from Goddard to buy it and renovate all the apartment units. They opened Thaleia on the ground floor partly as an additional revenue stream, but mostly because it was the perfect project to keep Kepler busy. 

Minkowski and Lovelace moved into the penthouse suite on the top floor, Eiffel and Hera in a unit of their own. Kepler has a cushy little studio, too, and he'd spent a lot of time there in the the first few months of opening.

At the time, Jacobi's shifts started from anywhere between noon and 4PM. Most days, they had zero overlap in hours awake or even in the same place-- Kepler had to be up at four in the morning when he was in Queens, two hours after Daniel finished his shift and went to bed, and Daniel was always at work by the time Kepler arrived home, if he did. 'Maybe we'll have a schedule that's more conducive to a relationship in the future,' he'd said, no more emotional than if he were calling Daniel into his office to do his yearly evaluation. 'In the meantime, let's see other people.'

Being a man who never half-asses anything, Kepler had immediately taken pains to put some distance between them, physically and emotionally. He used to open up about things that stressed him out at a rate of about one (1) time a week, and after The Conversation, that dropped back down to zero. Then he'd moved all the things Jacobi left in his room back to Daniel's in two neat little boxes, clothes meticulously folded and his favorite mug wrapped in newspaper in case it got jolted on the twenty-foot trip between their bedrooms.

He did _not_ stop cooking for the entire household or bringing food back for Jacobi and Maxwell, leaving fully prepped, nutritionally complete, and delicious meals boxed up in the fridge for both of them several times a week. Part of not having SI work to eat up his energy meant that he'd simply _find_ things to occupy his time. 

Neither of them have seen other people.

Daniel considers asking if Warren might consider rekindling things now that they're both going to be stuck at home, but he opens his mouth and, "Your people gonna be okay?" comes out instead around a mouthful of mac.

"Yeah," Kepler answers, finally loading all his goods into the fridge, "Minkowski and I are covering everyone out of pocket to stay home. Not really strapped for cash, and we don't need to cover rent on the building we _own_ so it's a loss we can eat." 

"That's nice of you."

"Keeping good people requires investment," answers Kepler. "How's the situation at work?" 

"My unit should've signed up to work for you, honestly. We're getting furloughed. Indefinitely." 

"Ouch," says Kepler, more out of sympathy for his squadmates than for Jacobi, who can theoretically spend like a drunken sailor for the rest of his life and never run out of savings after his own payout. 

"Yeah," Daniel sighs, "listen. The two guys in my unit are in a tough spot. They need a place to stay, and they asked if we have room. I said I'd talk to you and Alana about it." He gestures at the space around them, the minimalist kitchen with its state of the art fixtures. "I'd offer to just cover their rent, but I'm trying not to give away that we're ex-black ops for Goddard Futuristics." 

Kepler will never admit to have gone snooping at Jacobi's workplace, but old habits die hard. After Daniel announced that he'd started at the EOD unit, he and Maxwell had done their usual checks-- out of concern for him, they insisted. "Simon Teller," he says, "mid thirties. Massive debt. Married twice, lost the apartment _and_ the dog in the second divorce?" 

"Kind of an asshole," Jacobi concedes, "but he comes through when you need him to."

"Robert Hansen, aka Radio Bob, mid-twenties. Never met a lottery ticket he didn't like and plays _way_ too much online poker?" Kepler purses his lips. "I think I've won a couple hands off him, if he goes by radioXrobert1993."

"He's a sweet kid, though." Daniel gives him a pointed look. "Always goes out of his way to ask us what's up if we're not looking so good."

"And you want to invite them into our house?" 

"They're good guys, Warren." He says it quickly, with affection. Good-guys. "Good guys never have their shit together." 

"You know that'll be harder for you," Kepler says, loading the last of his goods into the fridge, "maintaining the Midland identity. And with that stay-at-home order in place..." 

"Nothing we haven't done before. Besides, you're gonna be home a lot more too, you can keep an eye on 'em if you're worried. They take the basement, we barely have to see them." 

Shrugging, Kepler watches Daniel finish his food and start on the dishes. "Anything new I should know about Mark Midland?" he asks. "MIT, 29, one illegal possession of fireworks misdemeanor when you were sixteen?"

"Still don't know why you couldn't use my _actual_ age," Jacobi grumbles. "having to dismantle bombs like I'm 30 again sucks."

"Daniel."

"Uh, not really. I'm pretty much the same guy as I was when I started with the SI-5."

One of the things Warren _really_ can't hide, or at least he doesn't try to around Daniel-- that indulgent, crooked smile. "Sarcastic and whiny?"

"Ye-- HEY."

"Besides," he says, crossing his arms across the counter and leaning hard on them, "no one in the world is gonna believe you're almost 40. I see servers wondering if they should card you when we go out."

"Oh, is that why you get dirty looks at the park?" Daniel laughs, swiping his forearm across his nose to scratch an itch while his hands are sudsy. "'Cause people think I'm half your age? That's funny."

"It's not that funny."

"You don't look a day over thirty-five," he says, grinning. Daniel rinses off the bowl and the single used fork, putting them on the neatly arranged dish rack by the sink.

"Daniel," Kepler says again, more firmly this time.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go talk to Alana. Thanks."

"Anytime."

* * *

"I don't know, Daniel." Maxwell spins around in her seat, a tricked-out gaming chair Jacobi had bought her for her birthday last year that she has since made her own modifications to. "You think they'll get along with Kepler?" she asks, hitting a button to set it in recliner mode while he lounges on a beanbag chair by her bed. 

"Kepler gets along with everyone," Daniel points out. 

"In small doses, sure." In small doses, he's charming and gracious. In slightly larger doses, Kepler is intractable and persnickety, very particular about how he wants things to be. 

"I mean," Daniel protests, "he's kind of the perfect roommate."

"He's only a good roommate because _we're_ good roommates," Maxwell says, giving him a pointed look. Neither of them are quite as fastidious as Kepler, but they obligingly keep their messes contained to their bedrooms, and leave the communal areas spotless. "Are your squadmates good roommates?" 

"Uh, inconclusive."

"No," she says. "Conclusively terrible."

Jacobi scowls at her. "How would you know that? Did you find out when you and Kepler were snooping?"

"We weren't _snooping_ we were investigating them to make sure they wouldn't be a threat to you." Before they can have another fight about it, Maxwell whips her phone out of her pocket and sends him a series of photos, clearly the inside of a dingy studio. There's a single mattress shoved into a corner of the apartment, a kitchen with dishes piled up in the sink, all of them encrusted with food, and an overflowing garbage can. A shot of the bathroom makes Daniel cringe, grime built up on every surface and small standing puddles inside the shower stall.

"What," he says, "is this?"

"It's Simon Teller's apartment," Maxwell tells him. 

Daniel zooms in a bit on the shower and recoils. "Does Kepler know?"

"Of course he knows."

"But he still said yes." Daniel eyes an exposed pipe running across the length of the room, and at least two plastic coat hangers melted onto it before Teller finally decided to use metal hangers for his rotation of three suits. There's an open suitcase by the mattress, filled with Bob's clothes.

"Well, you asked him." Maxwell gives him a baleful look, one she's been giving them both a lot since Kepler broke things off. "I'm sure he thinks he can mitigate the damage."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure anymore."

"Daniel," Maxwell tells him, "whatever you decide, we'll support your decision. But you have to feed them, and walk them, and--"

"Alright," he says, "alright, I get it. I brought home the strays, so they're my responsibility."

* * *

Over the weekend, Teller and Bob arrive in a quiet neighborhood (for New York City) and pull up to a house with a two-car garage, a BMW parked in the driveway, and a tidy front yard. "Midland lives here?" Bob asks, double-checking the address on his phone. "It's... it's really nice. I'd commute three hours a day to live here, too."

Jacobi meets them at the door, letting them in and directing them toward the kitchen with a sweep of his arm. "Alana Maxwell," he says, indicating the woman perched at a counter with a bag of chips, then Kepler, Teller, and Bob. "Warren Kepler, Simon Teller, Robert Hansen."

"But we just call him Radio Bob," Teller chimes in.

"Pleasure to meet you gentlemen." Kepler gives them a blandly pleasant smile. He cuts a tall, lean figure, casual in a pair of black fitted jeans and a light gray shirt. "Mark's told me a _lot_ about you."

"Yeah?" says Bob, eyeing him. "Wish he'd told us about you, though."

"Well, Mark is a man who takes his privacy _very_ seriously." Kepler tips his head. "Can I get you two anything to drink? Coffee? Espresso? Brought the machine from work."

Teller nods, following Jacobi and Bob to the counter and taking a seat across from Maxwell. "That'd be great."

"Regular coffee for me and Teller." Daniel smiles, elbowing Bob in the ribs. "Bob, tell him your special."

"Oh?" Kepler grins, sliding two mugs of coffee across the counter for Jacobi and Teller along with a carton of milk and assorted packets of sugar. "A special?"

"Nah, I mean, I wouldn't want to _impose_ more than we already are."

Kepler smiles wider. "Try me."

"Okay," he says, "it's a quad long shot, grande in a venti cup, half caff, no sleeve, salted caramel mocha latte with five pumps of toffee nut, half whole milk, half soy, extra hot, extra shot, extra foam, extra whip, sugar free." He pauses. "Well, the sizes and... sleeve part, you can totally ignore. Look, don't go out of your way, I know it's a lot."

"No," says Maxwell, "let him show off a little." 

By the time Bob finishes talking, there's a dizzying array of plastic deli containers and bottles laid out on the counter. Kepler's got a venti-sized insulated travel mug in front of him and he's drizzling salted caramel and mocha into it. He even has a dispenser of toffee nut syrup, and a carton of soymilk, a canister of Reddi-whip. While Kepler pulls the quad long shots and foams the milk, Bob looks back at Jacobi.

"Midland," he whispers, "is Warren single?"

Jacobi hisses back, "Off-limits."

Kepler takes a sip of the Radio Bob Special (after assent from the technician in question) before he hands it over. "No sugar's the right call," he says. "The mocha and caramel makes it just right. You should patent this." 

" _That's what I've been saying!_ " 

"Can I try?" asks Maxwell, sitting up in her seat a little as Bob passes the cup over. 

" _Hey,_ " Jacobi interrupts, "everyone remember there's a pandemic going on?" He shrugs off Maxwell's pout, waiting for her to retrieve another mug out of the cabinet to pour herself a little and sample that instead. She's not _bad_ at maintaining covers, but giving away that two out of three members of the household don't have to worry about a virus because their alien-provided immune systems aren't affected by them would only end badly for them.

"This _is_ good," Maxwell says, addressing Bob. She's all smiles, charisma she learned entirely from Kepler on display. "You have something here. There might be some limits on distribution, but we can talk logistics sometime."

* * *

Kepler retreats to his room to print out a contract while Jacobi gives the rest of his unit a tour of the house. He doesn't let them upstairs to the bedrooms, but takes them through a cozy living room with a massive TV against the wall, then through a backyard brimming with herbs and vegetables. The garden is something Kepler's admitted to wanting for a long time but could never maintain under Goddard, with how much he had to travel. All his plants would simply die in the weeks or months he couldn't be around. 

He doesn't have much time to manage it now, either, but Maxwell had taken over at some point and her tomato hybridizing experiments were coming along well. She'd even built a little wheeled unit for Invictus, so he could help her weed and water the vegetables. The mobile unit has been packed away for the time being, just to prevent any chance of running into their guests. 

"Midland," Bob says, pulling Jacobi aside while Teller makes a round through the garden, plucking herbs and sniffing them, "you have a _sugar daddy_?! Tell me where you got him _right now_."

"Wh-- _no_ , we all went in on this place. It's not his place, it's all three of ours."

"I mean, does he-- is he, you know?" Bob meaningfully waggles his eyebrows. "I think I've got a shot."

" _No_ , Bob."

Teller circles back around, brushing dirt off his fingers. "What the hell do your roommates do?" he asks, still a little shellshocked at the size of the house and the yard. It's pretty average for a house in the suburbs, and nowhere near the size of the mansions out in Long Island, but compared to a subdivided studio in the city, it's practically palatial. "And they got an opening for an EOD tech?"

"Alana installs and runs Minerva smart home systems," Jacobi answers. Her clients are pretty exclusively wealthy home-owners in Manhattan, but many of them who've moved out of state or who have friends living in other states and even countries have personally flown her out to do the installation for them. People have essentially been paying her to bug their houses for well over a year, simply because she taught an AI to operate coffee machines. Kepler has absolutely been using that network to his advantage. "Best in the business. She designed it herself."

"Damn," Teller says. "Is your house wired?"

"Nah, Warren doesn't like smart houses. Only her room."

"So what about him?"

"He owns Thaleia with a friend of his." At their blank looks, Jacobi elaborates: "You know, the Asian-Mediterranean place? Collab with a Michelin star chef? That's why he had all that coffee stuff on hand." That, and the fact that Kepler'd been in contact with Lovelace shortly after hearing from Jacobi about their new living arrangement and asked her to send him raw audio of the day she'd done her ride-along as Tatiana Sobrero. He ended up special-ordering the toffee nut syrup, but had everything else on hand.

"It's nuts that you think either of us know the name of any restaurant with a Michelin star," Teller says. 

Bob adds, very cheerfully, "Honestly, we try not to think about it 'cause we're never gonna be able to afford to eat at one."

"That's fair."

"What'd he do _before_ the restaurant business?" asks Teller, never one for leaving well enough alone even when it might benefit him to ignore designer threads and a Rolex and a prosthetic hand that moves exactly like an organic one. 

"Private sector," Jacobi answers with a meaningful raise of his brows.

Teller squints at the door back into the house. "He _looks_ like a private sector guy."

"C'mon boss," Bob says, laughing as he claps Teller on the shoulder and drags him back inside, "be nice."

* * *

The contract turns out to be a long list of ways to say 1. Don't Break My Shit, 2. Seriously, Don't Break My Very Expensive Furniture And Bathroom Fixtures, 3. Keep My Shit Clean, and 4. Don't Be Weird To Maxwell, She's Baby. 

Agreement signed, Kepler whisks Teller and Bob to the fully finished basement with Jacobi close behind them. 

"Geez," Bob says, eyeing a projector bolted to the ceiling pointed at a huge white screen, then throwing himself onto the big, cushy couch set up in front of it. Teller's already drifted to a compact but fully equipped home gym-- treadmill, weight machine, pull-up stand, and a punching bag. "I can't wait to sleep on this couch," Bob groans, turning his face into a pillow and sighing happily.

"You sure you wouldn't prefer an actual bed?" Kepler asks, gesturing for them to follow him through a door that Teller had assumed led to a boiler or storage room. There's a full-sized bed inside, a desk, a little dresser and even a closet. "There's another cot," Kepler says, opening the closet and gesturing at the folded rollaway bed in it, "if you want me to set that up."

"That would be great," Teller says. "Thanks."

"What's the threadcount on these sheets?" Bob says softly, running his hand over the clean white pillows at the head of the bed. "Did I use that word right?"

"I think you did," Teller whispers back.

"There's a bathroom through that door with a shower," Jacobi tells them while Kepler drags out the rollaway and places the bedding, pointing across the basement. "You can use the projector and gym as much as you want. We'll come down here sometimes, but you've got the bedroom to yourselves."

"This place is bigger than our apartment," Bob comments as he crosses the basement to the bathroom. Seconds later, he drags Jacobi in and points at the toilet. "You've got a _robot toilet_ in the _guest bathroom_?"

"It's called a washlet," Daniel answers. Kepler had insisted on them, waxing nostalgic about the months he'd once spent in Japan. "It heats up the seat in winter and sprays your ass so you don't chafe it with toilet paper."

"That's a thing?"

"Is the showerhead _set into the ceiling_? Wow," says Bob, "the water drains all the way out, huh?"

"What if we break the toilet? What are we gonna do if we break the toilet?" Teller rounds on Jacobi with a frantic look in his eyes. "We can't afford to replace that. I mean, I _assume_ we can't afford to replace that."

"How the hell are you gonna break-- don't answer that." Daniel huffs. "Just don't break the toilet. You definitely can't afford to replace it."


	2. Chapter 2

Bob and Teller take a few hours to settle in, unpacking their clothes and rolling around on all the cushy furniture to acclimate themselves. Jacobi leaves them once they start a round of rock-paper-scissors to decide who takes the bed and who gets the rollaway, informing them that he'll call them once it's dinnertime.

In the two days since he'd properly closed and boarded up the restaurant, Kepler's moved all his experimentation from his fully equipped commercial kitchen to the home. Meaning he's been using very expensive, restaurant-quality ingredients to prep meals for the whole house three times a day to use them up before they spoil, and Jacobi is getting _tired_ of beautifully plated, delicate arrangements of tiny slices of meat on oversized platters. 

Frankly, he's even getting a little tired of all the rich, pungent cheeses served in artfully broken little chunks or bite-sized wedges with cured meats, various jams and dried fruits and crusty slices of grilled bread. Sometimes a man just wants to bite into a fist-sized hunk of cheddar. 

Still, he can appreciate Kepler's willingness to pull out all the stops for Teller and Bob. In corporate intelligence, he'd let the paranoia of the job percolate to every corner of his life; In food, he'd done the same with hospitality-- something about forming useful habits. Daniel can also very much appreciate the apron Kepler's got on, a gift from Minkowski and Lovelace with _Today's Forecast: Cooking With a Chance of Drinking_ (Lovelace's contribution) printed on otherwise very professional and nicely stitched cloth (Minkowski's).

"So," Daniel says, watching Kepler clean and peel a variety of small, oddly-colored carrots, "I don't think those two have ever been any place nicer than a Taco Corner."

Frowning down at his carrots, Kepler asks, "You think they'd rather have tacos?"

"No, but one or both of them _might_ cry when they try your steak."

"Well," Kepler drawls, dropping the carrots into a bowl to toss them in olive oil, salt and pepper, "you know how much I like to make people cry."

"Can I help?"

"Get these on a tray."

Daniel slides behind the counter, laying out the carrots on a baking sheet and setting them aside. "Next?" 

"Mushrooms." Kepler grabs a few bottles out of a cabinet. "And grab the sprouts." 

"When's the last time Teller had a vegetable, you think?" Jacobi picks up two bags of brussels sprouts and tosses them over his shoulder without looking. Nothing hits the floor, so he stars rooting through the crisper drawers next. "Matsutake or oyster?" 

"Matsutake." Kepler asks, "Doesn't he eat a lot of takeout? Maybe there's a beef and broccoli in there somewhere." 

"I... wouldn't know. How do _you_ know? Did you stalk him?" Daniel turns around with an armful of mushrooms, brows furrowed as he considers his words. "Uh, again?"

"His trash was all Chinese takeout boxes," Kepler answers, giving him a mildy disappointed look that Jacobi blithely ignores. However much Warren's mellowed out after Goddard, it clearly wasn't _that_ much, and Jacobi has no intention of letting the stress of corporate black ops dominate his life again. 

"I really," Daniel answers, dumping his matsutakes into the same bowl Kepler had tossed the carrots in, "hate it when you do that."

* * *

Teller and Bob drift into the kitchen just as Kepler dumps a generous amount of honey, olive oil and balsamic vinegar into a plastic container, covering and shaking it to mix. "Question for you two," he says, looking up, "steak or lamb? I've got a whole crown roast, _or_ some wagyu that we didn't have a chance to sell, and I figured we could use it for a special occasion." 

"I don't know what most of those words mean," Bob quips, "but I _did_ hear steak, so let's go with that."

"Good choice," Kepler answers, going into the refrigerator and coming out with a paper-wrapped slab of beautifully marbled beef. He portions it into six small steaks, and wraps the extra into a new sheet of butcher paper. Beside him, Jacobi's halving brussels sprouts.

"How are you doing those guys?" Teller asks as he settles at the counter, Bob beside him. He tracks their movements, idly noting the way Kepler and Jacobi easily move around and with each other, the awareness of his co-workers' movements that Midland always displays in the field (barring one _very tragic_ incident with some hot coffee in the heat of an argument) somehow evident in his roommate as well. 

"Medium rare," Kepler says, looking away from his steaks to come up right beside Jacobi and reach under his arm to check on the sprouts. He plops down a container of dressing for them, then moves away with an approving bump of their shoulders, back to his steak. "You want it more done," he adds, with just a hint of disdain, "I can fire it a little longer."

Making a thoughtful sound, Teller folds his arms across the cool marble of the counter. "Y'know," he says, "I always had steak well done 'cause my granddad kept kosher and he never had it any other way. But I definitely don't, so I will defer to the chef."

"Wait," says Jacobi, "what?"

"Do your guys call you 'chef'," Bob asks, leaning forward to watch Kepler set a cast-iron skillet on the stove and turn on the fire, "Warren?"

"They do."

"Alright, chef." Ignoring the annoyed look Daniel levels in his direction, Bob catches Warren's eye and grins at him. "I'm gonna call you that, too."

Kepler laughs, motioning for Bob to stand up and come around the counter. "You better get on the line, then."

"Oh, with pleasure." Sidling right up between Jacobi and Kepler, Bob cheerfully hip-checks Jacobi and takes over tossing the brussels sprouts in its dressing before he spreads them out on yet another tray and pops them into the oven. More than willing to let someone else take over as Kepler's assistant, Jacobi gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and moves around the counter to sit next to Teller.

"You know," says Kepler, "professional kitchens run on a 'brigade' system. In some ways, it's almost like a military, or a police unit."

"Fair warning," Bob adds, "last time I bought a steak, I burned it so badly that I had to scrape off the outside and it was still raw in the middle. So just call me FNG."

"I'll show you how to get a perfect cook every time," Kepler answers, holding his left hand just above the flat of the skillet to check its temperature. He tilts his head toward a little mixing bowl clearly lifted straight from Thaleia's kitchen. "Grab that bowl for me, with the butter and rosemary."

"And the garlic?"

"And the garlic."

From upstairs, there's the sound of a door opening and closing, steps moving down the corridor. "Are we eating yet?" Maxwell asks from the top of the steps, taking them two at a time before she bounds into the kitchen to hover by the counter. Her eyes lock onto the steaks Kepler's got seasoned and waiting on their wire racks, a grin lighting up her face.

"Wait," Daniel says, tapping Teller on the shoulder, "boss, hold on."

He sees Kepler turn his head in his periphery, but he catches himself after a second, quickly looking back to Bob and walking him through how to test the doneness of a steak without having to cut it open.

"What?" 

"As long as the meat is certified," Daniel says eyes drifting back to the steaks searing in front of them, Kepler tilting the skillet so he can baste the meat with herb and garlic infused butter, "it's kosher even if you eat it raw."

"I mean, there's blood in it. Not that it makes a difference to _me_ , but--"

"It's not blood," says Maxwell, joining them at the counter in the seat Bob had vacated. 

Teller gives her an exasperated look, equal parts derision and annoyance at being contradicted. "Then what do you call the drippy red stuff that comes out when you cut into it?" he retorts. "Sounds an awful lot like blood to me." 

"It's myoglobin." At his confused look, Maxwell sighs. She's personally killed, skinned, drained and butchered various animals; skills she thought she'd never need again after leaving Montana, but which turned out to be surprisingly helpful for work in the SI-5. "The protein that binds oxygen to muscle," she explains. "That's why it only comes out after you cook the meat, when all actual blood has already been drained." 

"Besides," Daniel argues while Bob moves the carrots and mushrooms Jacobi had seasoned earlier into the oven, "even if there was blood, it's not like there's less blood if you burned it to a crisp. It's just cooked instead of liquid."

"Wait, why do you two know all this?" Teller looks between them. "Have you debated the kosherness of rare steak before?" 

"We had this conversation," Kepler says, finally chiming in, "when one of my cooks said it wasn't halal to eat rare steak so she couldn't work the grill." He'd relayed the story to Jacobi at some point, about a few servers researching the topic during a break and how upset the cook in question had been over needlessly eating overcooked steak her entire life. _That_ led to a quick scramble to find out whether or not the same laws applied to kosher meat. "Some people do just prefer well done, though." 

"I'm gonna look this up," Teller mumbles, slipping his phone out of his pocket and jabbing a few times at the cracked screen before it unlocks. 

Before he can turn his attention back to the stove, Kepler's eyes land on the scratched Goddard Futuristics logo on the back of Teller's phone, and he waits for Bob to look away to catch Maxwell's attention. _GF phone,_ he signs at her. 

Maxwell frowns, pointing with her chin at their router. _Network encrypted_ , she signs back.

_Handle it._

"Wish I could help more in this debate," Maxwell offers, shifting her seat a little closer to peer over Teller's arm at his screen, "but you don't want to know what they tried to teach me about Jewish dietary laws in rural Montana."

Teller snorts. "Was it blood libel?" 

"It was _so much_ blood libel."

They fall silent, Teller squinting at his screen while Kepler removes the steaks from his skillet and sets them aside to rest. Teller puts down his phone when Maxwell whips out hers, tired of watching him (unsuccessfully) try to access the top search result with a broken touchscreen. She hands the device over to prompt him to use it instead, and discreetly swipes Teller's off the counter.

Maxwell slips a thumb drive out of her back pocket, plugging it into Teller's phone to unlock it, and makes a show of having forgotten something in her room. It only takes her a few minutes to access the phone's settings, adjust its security, and grab her jacket off a chair as she heads back downstairs. 

"So," Teller says, handing back her phone, "looks like you guys were right and I need to have a conversation with my old man about his next barbecue." Just as he starts patting himself down for his own, Maxwell drops to her haunches beside his seat and feigns picking something off the floor. 

"Here," she says, all smiles as she hands back his phone and he puts it away with a quick thanks. Jacobi meets her eyes behind his back, simultaneously annoyed and resigned. "Our wi-fi network is IdentityTheftHere, password is Balvenie30," she adds, "capital B, in case you need it." 

"I will keep that in mind," Teller answers, flashing her a grin. "Thanks." 

"What's a Balvenie thirty?" Bob asks after a few seconds, making space on the counter at Kepler's prompting as he starts laying out plates. 

"It's whiskey," Daniel says, cutting Kepler off before he can start. "Warren likes the thirty-year single malt. He likes it a lot." 

"He likes the smell of it," Maxwell intones, deepening her voice, "he likes the taste of it." 

"He likes the _feel_ of it," Daniel continues when Maxwell succumbs to her laughter, "in his _hand_." 

"And so will you," Kepler tells Bob, "when you try it." He starts a sauce with the crusty bits left in the skillet, then takes all his roasted vegetables out of the oven. The next few minutes are quiet, Kepler moving with the kind of finesse he does when he knows he has an audience, and before long, he's slicing five perfectly seared wagyu steaks and fanning out the pieces beside large portions of roasted vegetables and mushrooms. The sauce goes last, elegantly drizzled over the steak.

Maxwell ducks around the counter for her plate, headbutting Kepler on the shoulder when she moves within range, and takes her food back up the stairs to eat in front of her computer. Kepler passes two plates across the counter for Jacobi and Teller, and hands Bob a fork. 

"Holy crap," says Bob, his words muffled around a mouthful of carrots and sprouts from where he's bent over the plate, "Warren, this is incredible. You made brussels sprouts taste good?!"

Kepler pulls four glasses out of a cabinet and fills them up with ice, then pulls a bottle off his shelf of fancy liquor. "Take your time," he says, setting the tumblers onto the counter and pouring a finger of whiskey into each one. "And try this."

"To ending this lockdown," Teller says after hurriedly wolfing down his first mouthful of carrots, taking a glass and raising it, "and soon."

Kepler tips his glass very slightly in Teller's direction, and doesn't wait for everyone else to finish toasting before he turns his attention back on Bob. "So?" he asks, carefully watching the wide-eyed awe on his face.

"I don't usually like whiskey," Bob answers, taking another tentative sip, "but this is like... are you sure it's whiskey? It goes down so freakin' smooth. Y'know, a cocktail with this in it would be insane."

"That's a speyside single malt, aged in oak and sherry casks for longer than you've been alive." Kepler returns Bob's blank stare with a grimace. "Don't put it in a cocktail," he clarifies, "or I will never speak to you again." 

Some (many) people might take Kepler never speaking to them again as a _reward_ , but Bob snaps off a salute, grinning. "Copy that, chef."

* * *

Near the end of their meal, Bob and Teller are slowly working through the last of their carrots after demolishing the steak. Kepler had, to be fair, roasted a _lot_ of vegetables and portioned them generously. Teller and Bob had eaten more greens and plant matter in the last half hour, Jacobi's pretty sure, than they have in years. 

As always, Kepler had finished his food quickly, a habit made even worse now from running an actual kitchen. He takes that opportunity to regale Teller and Bob with all the stories Jacobi and Maxwell have already heard-- mostly the ones that are only obliquely related to Goddard Futuristics, and things he'd gotten up to after their return to earth.

"One of Maxwell's clients asked me to look into what her husband got up to in Boston," Kepler says, collecting all the bowls and trays and tools he'd used in preparing the meal. "Turns out," he laughs, ignoring the faces Jacobi's pulling at him for talking about illegal activity in the presence of two cops, "it was an international money laundering scheme. She was just worried about cheating, so I reported back and as far as I know, they've worked it out."

"So there's someone money laundering up in Boston?" Teller asks, sounding nonchalant. "Who was it?"

Kepler gives him a look, neither suspicious nor startled. Just a simple challenge, daring Teller to start something in another man's house after eating the best meal of his life. "I'm no snitch," he says, and makes room when Jacobi comes around the counter with his dishes. He takes Daniel's elbow to his ribs without a sound, but crowds pointedly, uncomfortably close to him at the sink just to watch his face flush.

"Uh, we are technically cops," Bob pipes up, clearly accustomed to defusing situations between Teller and literally everyone else, "but it's out of our jurisdiction, so let's just assume the boys up there have it handled, right, boss?"

"Uh huh," says Teller.

"So," Bob says, cheerfully impervious to the tension, "you're a PI too?"

"Freelance."

"How'd you get into that?"

"Well, my mushrooms guy missed a couple orders in October last year." Kepler ignores the long, exasperated sigh from Jacobi behind him. The mental whiplash of his crazy stories hasn't fazed Daniel in years now. "Said someone was sabotaging his colonies, so I volunteered to look into it for him. 'Course, I grow my own mushrooms now _just in case_ , but he hasn't had a problem since. Word got around, so now I take on a few odd jobs when I have time."

"You grow your own 'shrooms?" Teller repeats, incredulous.

" _Legal_ mushrooms." Kepler points out the window into the yard, at a little shed near some shrubs that's barely visible in the dusky light. "In that plot over there, actually, ever since-- ah, Mark and Alana said I couldn't do it inside the house. Harvested the matsutakes we had myself. They're a little finicky in this weather." Pointedly, to the back of Jacobi's head: "Exposed to the elements."

"You think we're being unreasonable," Daniel says, washing his hands and wiping them on the legs of his jeans, "but I thought I left my coat in the living room closet once and when I opened it I thought we had an alien mold infestation."

"It was _very_ well-contained."

"Anyway, we made him move it outside."

Triumphantly finishing the last of his vegetables, still standing behind the counter beside Kepler, Bob ferries his dishes to the dishwasher. "Can I see them?" he asks.

"If you'd like."

* * *

Never one to pass up a chance to show off his mushrooms, Kepler leads Teller and Bob to the shed outside after dinner, Jacobi bringing up the rear. He opens the double doors to the simple-looking little structure and flips a lightswitch to reveal wall-to-wall shelves laden with bundles of straw and rotting logs. A few of them are showing signs of new growth.

The conversation that led to this particular setup had consisted mostly of Daniel arguing that his cheeses were exiled to the garage because they were a nuisance to everyone else inside the house, and Kepler's mushrooms shouldn't be treated any differently. Kepler was finally convinced to move them outside after being presented with compelling evidence of successful mushroom crops grown in outdoor sheds at their current latitude and climate.

"Very cool," says Bob, stepping fearlessly into the shed and putting his face right up near a log with little shiitakes just beginning to fruit on it. "You ever considered growing uh, _illegal_ mushrooms? Not that I'm _condoning_ it."

"That," answers Kepler, "would be a little hard to put on a menu." He closes up the shed once Bob vacates it, hands in his pockets as they all turn and head back toward the house. They're about halfway across the yard when Bob comes to a dead stop in the center of the lawn, Kepler running into his back, but catching him before they can both go stumbling. 

Bob turns his head at the sound of rustling leaves beside him, gasping when he sees the bulk of a very large, long-haired gray tabby step out from beneath some shrubs. One of its eyes is scarred shut, the tip of its left ear snipped off. "Who's _this_ guy?" he gasps, immediately dropping to his haunches and extending a hand. 

The cat approaches at a leisurely swagger, sniffing the tips of Bob's fingers before it allows him to scritch behind its ears.

"That's Caliban," says Jacobi as the cat rolls onto its back and lets Bob rub its belly. "We call him Cal. He's not supposed to be outside, but he snuck out a couple days ago."

Before long, Bob has Cal in his arms, nose buried in the ruff of fur around his neck. "He's so cute," Bob says, sticking close to Kepler's heels as they enter the house and the cat kicks out of his arms to land on the floor. "What happened to his eye?"

"He was a stray around here," Kepler answers, bending down to scoop Cal up when the cat starts winding around his legs. "I trapped him when I noticed his eye rotting out of his head and got him to a vet to get it fixed... and also to get fixed. We were planning to let him stay outside, but he seems to like it in here."

"And," Jacobi adds, reaching out to tickle the cat under his chin, "Warren didn't have the heart to let him go once Cal started sneaking into his bed every night."

"Oh," Bob quips, meeting the skewed grin on Kepler's face with a bright, clear laugh of his own, "that's all it took?" 

"Alright," Daniel says, throwing one arm around Bob's shoulders and physically steering him toward the basement, "how about we give the two of you some space. I'll show you how to set up the projector."

" _That_ would be great."

Daniel looks over his shoulder. "Sir," he says, watching Kepler's shoulders stiffen when he realizes that Teller's the one being addressed, "you coming?"

"Right behind you."

* * *

Teller never had much of a bedtime routine-- shower, brush teeth and change about sums it up, and despite the fancy toiletries and incredible water pressure in a shower that probably cost more than all of his belongings combined, he rolls into bed with a firm, "I don't like him."

"Who," Bob asks from the rollaway, sprawled out on his stomach, "Warren?"

"Uh, who _else_ could I mean?" Teller growls, tossing and turning a few times to cocoon himself further into his blankets. "Alana seems sweet, and we know Mark's a good guy."

"If you're gonna beef with the guy whose house we're living in 'cause we got evicted," Bob mumbles, his cheek squished against a clean, fluffy pillow, "you probably shouldn't say so out loud." 

"It's just-- he's so _pretentious_." The sheets are comfortable, though, Teller's nerves practically melting at the sensation of luxurious cotton on every bit of his skin not covered by an undershirt or his boxers. "All those crazy stories can't possibly be true."

"I mean, they sound plausible. There was a lot of detail."

"Ugh," he growls. "And you see the way he hovers around Midland? Creep."

Turning onto his back, Bob yawns, stretching all his limbs until he falls back onto the mattress with a contented sigh. "Honestly?" he says, propping himself up on his elbows, "Midland seems to like it." 

"What? Why would he like it?" 

"He has eyes, boss." 

Teller sits up, cross-legged with the blanket still wrapped around him, and squints. "Are you," he says incredulously, "trying to tell me... that Warren is hot?" 

"Yes?" Bob uses his finger to draw in the air the silhouette of a man with a borderline obscene shoulder-to-waist ratio. "Like, objectively. You can't tell me you haven't noticed." 

"Well I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the attractiveness of other guys." 

"Maybe if you did," Bob retorts, "you wouldn't be confused about how much Midland likes having Warren up in his space." 

"What the hell is wrong with young people nowadays," Teller grumbles, turning off the beside lamp. "Tall, jacked guy with a jawline that can cut glass cooks for you and suddenly he's hot? It just doesn't make any sense." 

"Those _are_ literally all things that people consider attractive," Bob points out. 

Flopping down onto the mattress with an annoyed huff, Teller drags a pillow under his arm and buries his face in it. "I just don't get it," he mumbles. "G'night."

Bob stares up at the ceiling. He had made a lot of assumptions about Teller over the last few years that the other man had never confirmed nor denied, but he really thought that he kind of _knew_ Simon Teller. Teller's been married twice and divorced in under a year both times. In the months since Bob's been living with him, he's had no problem sharing his single full-sized mattress for lack of a couch or inflatable mattress in his tiny subdivided studio apartment. He's a little cavalier, a lot impulsive, but he'd give his team the shirt off his back if they needed it.

He did not seem to be the kind of person to obliviously say 'how can anyone be attracted to this charming, impossibly handsome man?'

"Night, boss."

Bob closes his eyes, marveling at the rich tapestry of unique experiences that life presents to him every day as he falls asleep.

... as he falls asleep.

As he _falls_. _Asleep._

He shifts around a bit, sighing quietly as he tries to find a comfortable position. The room isn't cold but it's not warm, either, pretty much the perfect temperature to be curled up under a thick down comforter. It's a scenario that's clearly been orchestrated by a host who understands the importance of being _cozy as hell_.

Still. 

"Hey," Bob whispers, "boss?"

"Yeah?" Teller mumbles back.

"You awake?"

"No," he says, "I'm sleep-talking." 

"Are you seriously? My bad."

"No," Teller sighs, "I can't fall asleep even with a mattress this stupidly comfortable."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Maybe it's the change of scenery," he suggests. "We just gotta get used to it first."

Bob can't _really_ imagine that this is a worse situation to be sleeping in than Teller's apartment, where the heat is usually turned up so high in the winter that they have to open a window for air and they sleep curled up on a mattress that's sagging in the middle under two throw blankets purchased on clearance from Costco. Teller's pillows are lumpy, and Bob can't even remember the last time he washed their cases. Objectively, Midland's guestroom is a palace in comparison.

There's still something missing.

"Y'know," says Bob, trying to sound casual about it, "if _you're_ okay with it, we can probably both fit on the bed. It's pretty big, and I'm kinda used to doubling up lately."

"I was actually about to say," Teller responds, with much more audible relief in his voice than he probably intended, "that it just doesn't feel right to make you sleep on a rollaway when we've got a bed _this_ nice."

"Oh, those were my thoughts exactly."

"Get up here," he says, rolling over to make room and lifting the corner of his blanket. 

Bob obligingly clambers up onto the bed, slipping under the covers with a quiet sigh. Teller turns to lay on his side as Bob scoots closer until his chest is bare inches away from Teller's back, and slings his arm over Teller's ribs. It's habit, formed from trying to fit two grown men on one full-sized mattress, and Teller doesn't have it in him to tell Bob that there's no need for that with a bed _this_ big.

"Hey," Bob mumbles, "boss?"

"Hm?"

"You really don't think Warren's cute?" There's a sleepy quality to his voice that wasn't there earlier, Bob's breath warm and soft and familiar against the back of Teller's neck in a way that's about to put _him_ to sleep as well. "What about Midland? You think Midland's cute."

" _Cute_ and _hot_ are two totally different things," Teller says.

"I guess I just assumed you were bi, man."

"Well," he answers, "as long as we've cleared things up."

"We're spooning," Bob points out. He's practically asleep already, chuckling softly under his breath when Teller huffs in annoyance.

"It's natural to want to feel safe in an _unfamiliar environment_."

There's an audible grin in Bob's voice, evident even if Teller couldn't feel his shoulders shaking from barely-suppressed laughter. "Does being in the arms of another man make you feel safe, boss?" 

"Go the hell to sleep, Bob."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays!!


	3. Chapter 3

It's a testament to the guest room's soundproofing that when Bob finally blinks awake at 11:23 AM, extricates himself from under Teller's arm and silences his twice-snoozed alarm, he's _surprised_ at the sight of people already in the basement when he opens the door. Midland's going at a brisk run on the treadmill, wearing a sleeveless hoodie over basketball shorts; Warren's on the punching bag, in nothing but a pair of black joggers, his hands wrapped. Alana looks very displeased to be there, in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, but she diligently pulls down the bar on the weight machine, grimacing the whole time.

All three of them have textbook form and a precise, mechanical cadence to their movements, a rhythm that speaks to years and years of regular conditioning. Midland and Warren's steps are light, shoulders back; Alana's posture is straight here, even though it's usually more lax, and despite her clear reluctance to be working out she finishes each rep deliberately, without cutting corners. 

"Come on," Warren says to the other two, a little breathless as he bounces on his heels between jabs and kicks, "every gym in the city is closed! We're _lucky_ we get to do this."

Alana groans, finishing her set and slumping across the leg bar of the machine. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, legs stretched in front of her. Midland laughs, sweat dripping off his chin but his pace undiminished. 

"Morning," says Bob, yawning as he crosses the basement for the bathroom. He gets a chorus of greetings in response, overlapping and almost unintelligible. By the time he comes back out, Midland's finished up on the treadmill, and Warren's taking a break as well. "I forgot about this setup," Bob comments. "You guys work out together a lot?"

Alana shakes her head. "First time in a while, actually." 

"Warren's been really busy," explains Midland, "and he's the one who gets us all together for it."

"Did we wake you?" asks Warren, looking concerned enough that Bob just shakes his head, moving in close to pat him reassuringly on his bare shoulder.

"Didn't even realize you three were here," says Bob, ignoring Midland's eyeroll in his periphery to get a closer look at numerous scars on Warren's body-- largely fading but still darker than the skin around them. One long gash under his arm, along his ribs. A puckered crater under his collar. The burns and cuts on his hand and arms are newer, par for the course with kitchen work. "How'd you get this one?" Bob asks, tips of his fingers brushing what looks very much like a stab wound by his navel.

"Long story," Warren answers lightly, "involving a motorboat and some fireworks." 

In the meantime, Alana's propped her chin on the heels of both palms, eyes on the side of Midland's face while Mark studiously ignores her.

"We're about to head up for lunch," Warren says, "and I guess breakfast?" 

"I'll get Teller up. We okay to use the shower?"

"No, you have to use the hose outside." Catching Bob's elbow when he moves automatically for the stairs, still too sleep-addled to process any sarcasm or facts, Warren pulls him back. Bob breaks into a laugh when he's turned toward the bathroom and lightly propeled forward. "Towels on the rack are for you two," Warren says, letting Bob go with a cheerful thump on his back, "and there's more in the closet if you need them."

"Hell yes," Bob cheers, pumping his fist into the air, "clean towels!" 

"You can't do that to him this early in the morning," Midland chides, pulling off his hoodie and using it to dab away sweat as he heads up the stairs. "He's not awake until he's got the special in his system."

"I'll be sure to get him caffeinated before I tell blatant lies again," Warren shoots back, bringing up the rear behind Alana as she heads up after Midland.

* * *

Lunch seems to have been largely prepped in advance, but while Midland and Teller settle in the living room to kick back and watch TV, and Maxwell retreats to her room, Bob sticks around in the kitchen with Kepler, who's pan-searing strips of marinated beef while he spins a story about how he'd learned to cook tapsilog at the first store that sold it in Marikina City. Sometime between the end of his workout and Bob coming upstairs, he'd (unfortunately) put on a shirt. 

Still, the meat smells delicious, and while it's browning, Warren's started some oil in a wide, shallow pan. He dumps a load of sliced garlic into it and heats it up slowly, occasionally poking at the slices to keep them from sticking.

"Hey, chef," says Bob, using the chopsticks he'd been handed earlier to turn the meat in the skillet, "can I ask your advice?"

"Shoot."

Bob uses his chin to gesture at Teller in the living room. "So we're like, super broke."

Warren gives him a look, the one that says he's been _dying_ to have a conversation about this, but hadn't out of courtesy. "Yes," he says simply.

"And I think we don't... have to be? It's avoidable, is what I'm saying."

Garlic adequately crisped, Warren dumps a container of cold, cooked rice into the pan. "It depends," he says, drawing out the words. He keeps his tone deliberately neutral while he breaks up the clumped rice into loose grains.

"I mean, I've got a decent salary." Bob startles when Warren peers over his shoulder, but obligingly takes the stack of plates handed to him to start portioning out the meat as it finishes cooking. "EOD techs get full NYPD benefits," he continues. "On paper, I should be doing _really well_. But for some reason, every time rent is due we're scrounging just to get through the next week."

"Sounds like you're mainly having trouble with management," Warren comments, tossing the rice to heat it evenly.

"Oh, absolutely. You got any tips and tricks for financial stability?"

"Well, you start with a list of your assets and liabilities." Kepler gives him a wry smile as he starts to portion the rice, packing servings into a bowl and then upending it onto each plate as Bob passes them over. "In a sense, what you have and what you owe."

"A whole bunch of credit card debt."

"Car, mortgage, student loans?"

"Nope."

"Monthly expenses," Warren says, heating the pan back up and pulling a few eggs from the fridge. He waits for heat to shimmer above the surface of his pan before he cracks the eggs in one-handed, seasoning with salt and pepper as they cook. 

"I'm slooowly paying off some of the credit cards," Bob says. 

"Are you still using them?"

"Nah, they get declined everywhere." More seriously: "Uh, cellphone, rent, utilities."

"Walk me through an average day," Kepler says.

"Neither of us cook," Bob says, picking up plates to put on the counter as Warren slides a fried egg from his pan into each one, "so we'll grab coffee and a bagel or a bacon egg'n cheese for breakfast, some street meat for lunch, and takeout for dinner. If it's _really_ late we'll just get a patty or a chopped cheese from the bodega."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah." Bob moves up next to Warren when the older man takes out his phone and pulls up a calculator. "We get coffee three, four times a shift."

"You always get your special?"

"Twice a day."

"How much does that come out to?"

"No idea. I try not to look at the prices."

Warren silently tabs away from the calculator to open up the Starbucks application. He doesn't even ask Bob to repeat the special as he enters it. "It's about twelve bucks for one in Midtown. Anything else?"

"And I usually get a handful of lottery tickets at the bodega before work."

Kepler doesn't let any judgment show on his face, though he's sorely tempted. "How big of a handful is a handful?"

"Anywhere from... thirty to fifty bucks?" Bob grimaces as Warren adds up his daily expenses. "Okay, don't look at me like that. The online poker habit isn't nearly as bad."

"How much online poker?" Warren asks, sounding very tired.

"A _lot_ of online poker," says Bob, taking pity on him, and in genuine fear that the number would knock his host out cold. "Kinda comes with the debilitating gambling addiction, but I win sometimes, too!"

Warren sighs, putting away his phone. "Let's eat first," he says, "before I lose my appetite."

* * *

Kepler gets Maxwell in on the conversation when she wanders out of her room, freshly showered from her workout and following the scent of food. Jacobi picks up his plate, hears the first sentence of Kepler explaining to Bob what an ROI is in the context of his finances, and turns tail back to the couch. Teller, who knows what those things are but who has a visceral fear of conversations about money, joins him.

"So," says Maxwell between mouthfuls of rice and egg, "you have about three thousand dollars take-home every month after taxes and deductions."

"Theoretically," says Bob.

"Theoretically," Maxwell allows. "After rent and utilities, you're down to about $2,500 since you're splitting with Sgt. Teller. You spend about twelve hundred on coffee and food, since neither of you cook, and that brings you to thirteen hundred that you could _theoretically_ save. But you don't have savings."

"Yep."

"You spend about thirty a day on lottery tickets," Maxwell murmurs, "and about two hundred a week on online poker. That definitely puts you in the negative at the end of the month, not to mention going for drinks after work or eating out."

"I win _sometimes_ ," Bob protests. "Most months I've even got an extra twenty here and there."

Kepler looks up from inhaling his food, washing down a mouthful with a long drink of water. "You should start," he says, "by automatically transferring a portion of every paycheck to your savings or investment account. Then you've got less available to spend on poker and lottery tickets, and more saved up for investing."

"Okay," says Bob. "About that."

"You should start by opening a savings account," Kepler sighs. "And Alana has an AI that can manage investments."

"He handles all of ours," Maxwell says cheerfully, "and we're getting an eighty percent return every year."

Bob blinks at them several times. He's never seriously considered investing, having never had enough money on hand to set aside, out of reach, just like that. "Seriously?" he asks. "That would be amazing!"

"I'll just need your bank username and password."

"Oh, yeah, sure." Bob rattles them off, and Maxwell pulls out her phone to log into his account for a proper look at his balances and spending habits. Her brows furrow immediately, simultaneously horrified and morbidly curious.

"Another piece of advice," Kepler offers, voice and expression dry, "don't give your bank account information to anyone who asks you for it."

Sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, Bob laughs. "I figure it's like parking a really crappy bike in Williamsburg," he says. "Everybody in the neighborhood's _already_ got a better one, so your junk is safe."

"She could steal your identity," Warren points out. "Alana, how easy would it be to steal his identity?"

"I already have," she answers, not looking up from her phone. "Robert Hansen, you now have a savings account. Can I borrow your phone?"

He hands it over, and she jams a USB stick into the port. She copies an application into it to connect his phone to her personal network, where an AI can both monitor his phone usage, block government and corporate phone-tapping, _and_ manage his finances. Invictus has about twenty accounts between nine people under his control, and had been asking her about scaling up his operations for a while now.

"You should've qualified for unemployment benefits when the furlough began," Kepler tells him, browsing a few articles on his phone, "so we'll start now. Alana?"

"Done." She hands the phone back to Bob, indicating a new icon on his homescreen. "You can also call up the 'Invictus' application to ask about wealth management anytime. He's only three, so be nice."

Bob opens the app immediately, and a simple interface pops up. A message appears, _Hi Robert!_ in a minimalist font. "An AI lives in my phone now?" He grins down at the screen. "Hello?"

 _Howdy,_ says the AI.

"No, you can _access Invictus's services_ from your phone now." Maxwell turns back to her food, scraping up the last of her rice with a spoon. "He's a personal finances and lifestyle manager. Oh! And he has a recipe database that can scale ingredients as needed. Warren asked for that one."

Bob looks down at his phone. "You can call me Bob."

_Nice to meet you, Bob! What can I do for you?_

"I heard you can tell me about my financial situation?"

 _Yes!_ Invictus sends him a summary of his account balances, about $6.47 in his checkings and $0.00 in a brand new savings. _I will transfer half of your unemployment benefits and salary to savings each time you receive a deposit, and automatically alert you when you have spent the allotted ten dollars per day on lottery tickets and online poker._

"I've got an _allotment_ on lottery tickets and poker?" Bob asks, despairing as he turns his face to Kepler. He even brings his hands up to wrap around Warren's elbow, and presses his cheek to the ball of his shoulder. "An allotment?"

"Better make it last," Kepler says cheerfully. "But I'm not gonna make you go cold turkey. You'll have time to... adjust. And what better time than lockdown?"

"Warren," he whines.

"If you want to play poker," Kepler tells him, patting Bob gently on top of his head, "we've got more than enough people in house to have a proper game. And the stakes will be a lot more fun than a couple dollars."

Mulling that over, Bob finally heaves a sigh. He glances at his phone as he releases Kepler's arm, and thanks Invictus before putting the device to sleep. "Alright, so," he says, flashing Maxwell a grin, "I've got a savings account, I'm gonna have an AI managing all my money, and I'm staying in the nicest house I've ever seen." 

"Bit of an exaggeration," Kepler murmurs, but even he can't fight back the smug, preening grin.

"Is that a problem?" she asks.

Dropping his volume, Bob cups a hand around his mouth and says in a very loud whisper, "Can you guys steal my identity more often?"

* * *

Kepler and Maxwell head out to the yard after lunch, both of them on their haunches weeding, pruning herbs and tending to the new growth sprouting out of every corner in their raised beds. Jacobi follows Teller and Bob into the basement, turning on the projector and handing each of them controllers as he boots up MarioKart. They play until dinner, a simple plate of seafood pasta with some grilled vegetables on the side, after which Kepler and Maxwell retreat upstairs. Jacobi joins his unit in the basement again, where Teller and Bob spend about ten minutes half-heartedly using the gym. 

They give up quickly, too full from dinner to complete a proper workout, and retire to the couch to chat. Teller slouches into the cushions and kicks his socked feet up on the ottoman, slinging one arm over Bob's shoulders as his subordinate settles in next to him. "So what's the deal with you three?" he asks Jacobi, gesturing vaguely at the entire house. 

Daniel had taken care to at least _somewhat_ keep his distance from the other two while Teller and Bob are around, but he supposes a group workout implies a level of closeness that most roommates don't necessarily have. The easy rapport and often-wordless communication they've established over nearly a decade can't have helped much, either. "We're roommates," Jacobi says, flippant. "Thought we covered this already." 

Still, Teller didn't get to be head of Unit 214 by being stupid. "Alright," he concedes, tone nonchalant, "but how did you _get_ to buy the place together? Ad on Craigslist or something? Seems like you really lucked out." 

"Also," says Bob, extending one leg to nudge Jacobi's ankle with his foot, "what's going on with you and Warren? I'm sensing some tension." 

"We all used to work together," Jacobi answers, intentionally vague, "and once we stopped, we decided it might be nice to be roomies." 

"Yeah?" Teller drawls, "Were you a private sector guy, too?"

Jacobi briefly contemplates explaining that in his previous line of work, he was the one _planting_ bombs, and then he shrugs. "Yeah."

"What kind of private sector work?"

"Big tech."

"Newton? Faraday?"

"Classified."

Teller groans, the arm he has wrapped around Bob tightening for a second as he shakes the younger man in frustration. Bob laughs, letting his weight settle against Teller's ribs. "C'mon, Midland," Teller whines, "you can tell us."

"Signed a bunch of NDAs," Jacobi says, "so no, I can't." 

It's not strictly a lie, but years out from working at Goddard Futuristics and his first inclination is still to keep private information to himself. He'd spent so long working alongside Kepler that it's second nature to obfuscate and dodge-- Kepler did it with stories, giving an immense amount of absolutely useless information to anyone unfortunate enough to be stuck in a room with him. Daniel went for the low-effort method of deflecting with sarcasm and disinterest.

"Okay but," Bob cuts in, sensing that Teller's about to tread on some sensitive ground, "you and Warren--"

"I'm not gonna get into it," Jacobi tells him. "What's the deal with _you_ two?" 

"There's no deal with us two," Teller insists.

Daniel gives them a skeptical look. "You sure?"

"We just got used to sharing the bed at his place," Bob says, as if that explains the two of them being attached at the hip in the living room.

"Uh... huh."

"Look, Midland," Teller says, sounding extraordinarily matter-of-fact for someone who's in clear denial about his attraction to men, "as a man who's comfortable with his sexuality, physical affection with other men is a perfectly healthy expression of our _totally platonic_ friendship. Don't be a homophobe."

"I'm definitely not that," Jacobi deadpans. He meets Bob's eyes, silently begging him not to humor their supervisor, but Bob presses his lips into a thin line, eyes wide as he desperately tries not to laugh out loud at Daniel's predicament.

Teller squints at him. "You sure about that?"

The worst part is, Daniel knows this tactic. He's seen it at work, used it himself to extract information. Playing dumb until the other guy can't resist correcting you is basic intel-gathering, and Simon Teller is, after all, a sergeant. Daniel knows it's _stupid_ to get sucked into this argument, but he groans loudly and chucks a throw pillow at him. "Warren is _literally_ my ex," he says.

"Wait," says Teller, "really?"

"Uh, did you not--" Jacobi sputters, not sure whether he's pissed at himself for falling for a trick Teller wasn't trying to pull, or at Teller for being _this_ dense, "you didn't like, guess?"

Throwing up both hands, palms out, Teller makes a face at Bob when the younger man collapses against him, laughing breathlessly. "It's not like you ever tell us anything about yourself! I don't make _assumptions_ about my co-workers."

"He always agrees with me when I say a celebrity's hot," Bob reminds him. "Actually, so do you, hence why we assumed you were bi!"

"Celebrities and real people are different," Teller insists.

"Boss, do you--" Bob dissolves into another fit of laughter, this one caused equally by Midland's face in his hands _and_ the defensive incredulity of Teller's expression, and he gasps, "do you think celebrities aren't real people?"

"I just mean they're all _unrealistically_ hot," argues Teller, "so you can't use being attracted to them as a metric for regular people!"

"So," Jacobi says, deciding that they don't have nearly enough time to unpack that statement, "you don't like it when Warren's nice to Bob because..."

"He's two-faced. I can feel it." Teller mimes wringing a neck with his hands. "He _acts_ all charming and generous and no one ever questions it."

"He's also really nice and letting us stay in his house for free," Bob points out, catching his breath. He steals a glance at Midland, who also looks amused, but in that focused, dangerous way he gets when he takes lead on a disposal.

"There's just something shady about him." Teller shakes his head, face flushed from the gentle roasting his subordinates had just subjected him to. "But listen, if you trust him," he says, addressing Bob and then Midland, "and you say he's all right, I'm gonna let it go."

* * *

Upstairs, Kepler looks up at a knock on his half-open door, brows raised as Maxwell slips inside.

Ever since they stopped working together in a paramilitary or corporate subterfuge-related capacity, she's been _very_ casual about his space in a way that he doesn't necessarily mind, but takes pains to look disgruntled about anyway just in case she gets too used to coming into his room and flopping right onto his bed. Probably picked it up from Jacobi, because Warren can't recall anyone she'd treated like this before starting at Goddard.

"I sent you the statements," she says, making a mess out of his meticulously folded blankets. "You like them!"

Kepler wrinkles his nose, but he obligingly checks his phone. "Who?"

"Bob, at least." She grins at him, settling comfortably against the headboard with a pillow propped up behind her back and her legs crossed. "You wouldn't let Vic manage his finances if you didn't."

"You saw those numbers."

"It was so hard to not just dump some money in and have Vic police his spending habits." Maxwell looks down at her phone to address it, only just realizing how much restraint it must have taken for Kepler not to take complete control of her lifestyle and finances when she first joined the SI-5. "Right, Vic? Wasn't that terrible?" 

Invictus's voice streams out of her phone's speakers, no longer identical to only Kepler's, but a pleasant equalization of several people's, Maxwell and Jacobi included. 'It was pretty bad,' he agrees. 'He could probably cut food expenses in half if he made his own breakfast and lunch every day.'

"Maybe arguing with an AI who controls his finances will distract him from gambling," Maxwell sighs. 

Kepler turns back to his laptop. "If you're prepared to support him like that for the rest of his life, go ahead."

"I know, I know."

'Give a man a fish,' Vic intones, except this time he fully uses Kepler's voice. It may or may not be a recording. Kepler briefly contemplates calling a very protracted and boring household meeting in revenge for everyone who thinks imitating him is funny.

From her vantage point in his bed, Maxwell watches Kepler click through to the documents she'd sent him, scanning a list of transactions with a deflated expression on his face. "You should just be there to help him build good habits and beef up his savings," Kepler says to Vic. "If you lose access one day, he should still be fine."

'Will do,' Vic chirps in response.

"The NYPD automatically opens retirement accounts for officers," Kepler adds, "so I wouldn't worry too much about investments." He makes a thoughtful sound, running his hands through his hair a few times as he leans back in his seat and stretches his arms, his back and shoulders. Jacobi's long since given up getting on his case for snooping, but he does make the occasional snide remark. What kind of paranoid goes through his own vetting/stalking process for _every_ cook and server he hires?

It doesn't hurt that Lovelace helps out when it comes to hiring for Thaleia; she's partially concerned for Minkowski but _mostly_ Warren's sure that she just thinks stakeouts are fun. 

"He's set for retirement," Maxwell agrees, "it's the daily spending that gets me."

"Should be fine to wait and see."

Maxwell hums contentedly as she topples sideways to the mattress, arms extended over her head. She stretches her legs out, toes flexing a few times before she rolls over and pulls one of Kepler's pillows under her arms, using it to prop herself up while she browses her phone. "I missed this," she says. "Debriefing. We haven't done this since things got busy at Thaleia."

At Goddard, Kepler would drop in on them regularly, keeping track of their movements and activities and sending updates as needed so none of them would duplicate a task, or end up packing _three wire clippers_ and not a single crowbar on a critically time-sensitive mission (again). That incident had necessitated a rest stop to be replaced with a run to the hardware store on a _twenty-hour drive_. It only had to happen once before Kepler instituted a policy of periodic check-ins.

They had learned shortly after moving in together, after all three of them arrived home with a liter of milk and a dozen eggs each on a day when both ran low, that they would in fact have to continue the procedure. This time, though, they could do it over dinner, or sprawled out on the couch at the end of the day, or (as both Jacobi and Maxwell seem to prefer) in Kepler's room, the two of them lounging on his very comfortable and obscenely expensive bed and taking up every inch of space on it.

"Speaking of," says Kepler, "I'm hearing that New Yorkers are making a run on toilet paper. I've got a stockpile, but it won't last forever."

"You just want to brag about the washlets," Maxwell grumbles. 

"I'm nothing if not prepared for mass panic on urban terrain," he quips.

"What about food?"

"We're good for a few months on canned and non-perishables, but I think it might be best if you or I went grocery shopping. I haven't had so much as a cold in three years."

"Me neither." Maxwell extends her fist for him to bump, which he does. "Team alien!" 

"Anything on your end?"

"Minerva's telling me that most of my clients are planning to flee the city for a while." She gives him a distasteful look. Kepler had introduced her to this key group of wealthy clients, a relatively low-maintenance crowd who pay her more than enough to fund all of her other projects. "They're booking flights, setting up vacation mode and buying suitcases and everything. Guess we'll see how long that lasts."

"Bets on when you'll be flown out to hook up their vacation homes?"

"I don't know." Maxwell stands up, tucking her phone back into her pocket. She approaches Kepler to bump him on the shoulder on her way out of his room, and pauses by his chair long enough to tell him, "I built a model based off aggregated data from Italy and China. It'll get much worse here before it gets better."

"Yeah." Goddard was one of many technology companies that built mathematical models for everything from pandemics to natural disasters; Kepler had spent some time looking over the contingencies before the SI-5 went up to the Hephaestus, but many things had changed since then. "You made adjustments for policy implementation and compliance rates?"

A nod. "It doesn't look good."

"Didn't think so." Pushing himself to his feet, Kepler walks her to the door, leaning on the jamb for a second before she can head back to her own room. She doesn't get nervous often, but Maxwell seems restless now. "For now," he says, falling back on the tried and true method of creating objectives to distract from abject pessimism, "we sit tight. Lockdown order's in place for a while yet. Try to find out if Team Alien is actually immune; best case, we can inoculate Jacobi so he's clear even if his unit gets infected."

That makes her smile, teasing. "You're just going to leave our guests hanging?" 

" _You_ try explaining to two complete strangers that you have to inject them with your blood." He grins at her, sending her off with a hard clap to her shoulder. "That'll go over just great."


	4. Chapter 4

At some point Daniel remembers the secondary fridge sequestered away in the boiler room full of beer, soda, and a few fermentation projects. There's a tub of kimchi (a gift from Kepler's sous-chef, homemade) beside a six-pack of craft ales, and a failed batch of pickled radishes Warren had planned to safely dispose of but had forgotten for four months instead. Bob and Teller react to the well-sealed kimchi with curiosity, though Daniel doesn't let them open up the container, and accept the Budweisers that he hands them instead.

A few beers down and they're back on the couch-- Daniel at one end and Teller at the other, Bob's head on Teller's lap and his feet resting on Daniel's. "Why'd you two break up?" Bob asks, prodding at Jacobi's stomach with a socked foot. "You and Warren?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Jacobi grumbles, but he takes another swig of beer and sighs. He'd talked it to death with Maxwell already, though she hadn't been _that_ helpful. She's understanding to an extent, but her conclusion had been similar enough to Kepler's-- that is, why _not_ break it off and see other people until they can properly devote themselves to a relationship with each other again? It may have been a bit much to expect that either of them would realize normal people emotions don't work that way.

"Okay," Teller says, tapping Bob on the forehead a few times, "okay. Leave him alone, Bob." 

"But if you're not together," he says, "is he on the market or--"

Jacobi seizes one of Bob's feet, locking it by the ankle under his armpit and tickling his sole until Bob's writhing, trying to twist out of his grip. "Wait," he wheezes, narrowly missing Daniel's head with his other foot, "Midland, c'mon, please--"

He slips off the edge of the couch, leg still held in Jacobi's death grip as Teller scrambles to catch him and pull him back up. Daniel lets him go so Bob can plant his feet on the floor and settle back on the couch, and he watches his younger co-worker with an expectant look on his face.

"I'm kidding," Bob says, appropriately contrite. "Mostly."

"I still don't see the appeal," Teller comments, shrugging as Bob nestles back against his side. 

"Tall, hot, older guy with a nice house who cooks?" Bob pokes him in the ribs. "What's _not_ to like?"

"That your type?"

"You bet that's my type. And Warren is what we like to call a certified _snack_."

"'We'?" Teller repeats, looking toward Jacobi for help. "Who's we?"

"No comment."

"Seriously though," Bob continues, extending his foot to tentatively poke Jacobi's leg with his big toe, "you know those couples who break up but still live in the same house? You two don't have that vibe."

Daniel sighs. "What vibe do we have, Bob?"

"Honestly, kinda like you're keeping it PG 'cause you've got guests over. I was just messing with you."

"So all that was just-- what, a joke?"

"I'm not gonna go after your ex, Midland!" Bob tries to give him a reassuring grin, but it collapses after a moment into a mischievous one. "Not gonna complain if he wants to give me a little extra _completely platonic_ attention on the side, though."

It took Daniel a while to acclimate to Teller and Bob's humor, and even now it still takes him off guard. Kepler and Maxwell get _mean_ with their jokes, taking digs at each other's triple-reinforced armor to see who gets stung first like it's some kind of game. They usually leave him out of it; Kepler and Maxwell take hurt feelings as a helpful clue as to which parts of their persona to fortify next, and they instinctively understood that Daniel definitely doesn't share that view. 

Teller and Bob are sharp in a similar way, brutally honest when they probably shouldn't be, but they avoid the soft spots. Teller will give Bob shit over his special, but he's never come at him for his gambling. Bob will remind Teller of the five bucks he'd borrowed for a bag of chips and salsa once, that he never actually intends to make Teller repay, but never takes shots at his inability to clean up his spaces. It's something Teller can't _really_ help with everything else that's going on in his life. 

When Daniel started with the unit, he kept things painstakingly polite, to a degree that was offputting to his friendly, touchy new squadmates. They joked around with him until he got comfortable, played little pranks on him and called him dumb nicknames until they could cajole him into a few sarcastic retorts of his own. Always sufficiently mean, but careful to avoid their sore spots as well. 'What happened to the Midland who first joined us?' Teller would lament, wiping away a fake tear. 'That guy was so sweet.'

Early on there was a period of feeling out boundaries, Teller and Bob making comments that _could_ be hurtful if any of them were true about Daniel's situation instead of just a cover for his cushy civilian life. They'd usually catch themselves when Daniel put on an expression of discomfort, and then wordlessly apologize with a danish along with his coffee, or a sandwich from his favorite deli. 

_Let them think they're getting to know you,_ Kepler used to tell him, when they still had to blend in and embed with strangers. _But don't be memorable, don't piss them off. Don't be boring enough to be notable. I made that mistake once, and let me tell you, it's almost worse to be remembered for how boring you are. Infiltration 101._

It's been almost a year and a half, though, no longer infiltration but actual friendship. After the fiasco on New Year's Eve, there's really no slipping under the radar with Teller and Bob anymore. And despite how little he tells them, they don't pry, and they don't question his commitment to the work, one of the things Daniel learned to appreciate most about New Yorkers. How much they love their space, both physical and emotional. The assumption that if there's something he's not discussing, it's not anyone else's place to ask him about it, especially if he still comes through with his work.

It reminds him a little of the SI-5, if Daniel were being honest. Only bomb disposal is a lot less regimented, and less risky. He takes a chance on Bob's easy, nonjudgmental smile and drags a hand down his face. "I haven't seen him much since he broke it off," he offers, "so we're not exactly... used to this."

"I think you should talk to him," Bob says, very easily for someone who has not been having an important conversation with Teller. "Guy obviously still cares about you."

"And where do you get _that_ idea?"

"I mean, he's letting us stay here, isn't he?"

"He's not the head of household or anything," Daniel protests, "it's just as much my place as his."

"Look, he's _terrified_ of us messing up his stuff," Bob points out, "and he hasn't even seen the inside of the squad van."

"Or our apartment," Teller adds.

Jacobi presses his lips together into a thin line.

"But he still agreed to let two complete strangers move into this beautiful house 'cause you asked. That's what some of us call _amore_ , Midland."

Jacobi mulls that over, turning the idea of it around and around in his head. He would never say out loud but acknowledged internally a long time ago that he loves Maxwell without reserve, that she deserves everything the world has to offer. It's the easiest thing in the world to love Maxwell, her wit and conviction, her loyalty and her compassion. 

He and Kepler definitely have what they both called _trust_ , and _respect_. Daniel had figured that it could also be called 'convenient', and 'comfortable' and a host of other words that begin with C, such as 'cooperative' and 'careful'. The thought of acknowledging it as anything more has occurred to him, and likely Warren as well, but neither of them have ever broached the topic. "He's got a funny way of showing it," Daniel says after a while, brows furrowed.

"I know a lot of guys like that," Bob says, nodding sagely. "They don't go in like this unless they're in _deep_ , but they're never gonna say so 'cause they're afraid of uh, commitment? Intimacy? I don't know. Most dudes are emotional disasters."

" _Huge_ emotional disasters," Daniel concedes, voice dry. He pointedly doesn't exclude himself from the statement.

Bob makes a thoughtful sound, his gaze sliding sideways to indicate, at least to Jacobi, the huge emotional disaster currently being used as his pillow. "If you ask me," he says, "and I don't know every detail of your thing, but it sounds like he broke it off because he thought _you'd_ decide it wasn't worth it at some point, so he might as well rip off the band-aid sooner, on his own terms. Just a guess, though."

"So he's an idiot."

"You know that saying," Bob asks, "'Smart, handsome and nice-- pick two'?"

The idea that Warren sacrificed all his braincells to be nice to people momentarily short-circuits Jacobi. It's true that Kepler hasn't had as much reason to be violent and ruthless since they stopped working for Goddard, and frankly, he seems to enjoy it. It turns out that he mostly just likes to manage people, learn new skills, and constantly put his abilities to the test-- all of which he can do running a kitchen, with the added benefit of not having to dispose of any bodies.

"He's gotten nicer," Daniel acknowledges. "You saying he got dumber because of it?"

In yet another breathtaking display of staying in his own lane, Bob only obliquely references the numerous scars on Kepler that he'd glimpsed earlier that day. "I don't get the impression," Bob says, "he was the welcome-strangers-into-his-house type in the private sector."

"He definitely wasn't."

"What," Bob laughs, "did he do a background check on us first?"

Any _less_ time spent working in corporate black ops would've had Daniel blowing his cover on the spot with a badly-timed laugh. But he was trained to delay any and all outbursts and reactions for exactly this kind of situation, and he keeps his face wooden. "I vouched for you two. He trusts me."

"That's a lot of trust," Teller points out, but he doesn't push it any further as Bob heaves himself to his feet to go brush his teeth and get ready for bed.

* * *

Kepler is at his desk, trying to coax Cal off his keyboard so he can poke at some spreadsheets, when Daniel pauses in the doorway to his bedroom. He watches for a few seconds, trying not to laugh at Warren's attempt to reason with a cat who's decided that its person can't be let out of its sight or he'll start disappearing for days at a time again. 

Daniel eventually knocks, three times, waiting for Kepler to turn his seat around and ask, "What do you need, Daniel?"

Despite how much time they've both been at home the last couple days, neither of them have spent that much of it in the same place. Kepler has a multitude of forms to fill, sign and file for the business-- a process he's _very_ familiar with-- not to mention dozens of little home improvement projects he'd dropped to properly open Thaleia with Minkowski. He's taking the unexpected time off and the unexpected guests in stride, but Daniel has known him long enough to recognize the boredom that's already beginning to take root without a kitchen to manage. That _usually_ manifests in starting a new project or needling anyone in the vicinity from whom he can provoke a response. 

'Lack of proper enrichment may lead to aggression, anxiety, property damage, and attempts to join another paramilitary,' Maxwell once teased him, and he hasn't tried it with her since. Certain people now living in the house have no idea what they're getting into.

"You shouldn't humor Bob so much," Daniel says, slipping into the room and shutting the door behind him. "He's _actually_ like, half your age."

"He wants to learn how to cook and manage his finances," Kepler says lightly, eyes following as he crosses the room, "I'm not gonna say _no_."

Daniel comes to a stop at the edge of Kepler's desk, half-sitting on the edge so he can reach over and run his hand along Cal's side. The cat purrs, eye narrowing in contentment as he rolls over a few more keys, and in the meantime Kepler's spun the seat around to face him. "He's a good kid," Daniel adds. "Don't play him."

Something changes in Kepler's expression-- the narrowing of his eyes, a dangerous spark of interest. Jacobi's never felt the need to come to his colleagues' defense before; Maxwell could always handle herself, and he didn't really care enough about the others. _Good-guys_ , he'd called Teller and Bob. 

"I'm not playing," Kepler drawls. "He needs guidance."

"And you're the one to give it to him?"

"Well, he'll be more inclined to listen to what I'm saying if I humor him." Kepler shifts in his seat, a deliberate lean against the armrest, and the heel of his prosthetic hand fitted under his chin. "And you're keeping both of them at arm's length for some reason."

"I mean, I invited them to stay with us."

"They asked you to let them stay with us," Kepler corrects, "and you _reluctantly agreed_."

Daniel opens his mouth to ask him why he remembers that, but he shuts it again. A few months ago, the idea of being _honest_ with Warren wasn't quite so disconcerting. It didn't feel like being dissected the way it did in the SI-5, the way it does now. He used to like it, a long time ago-- how Colonel Kepler could methodically, deliberately tease out the information he wanted. He's precise and careful, cutting to the point with a scalpel. 

Then for about two and a half years, Daniel had _Warren_ , and that guy still looked at Daniel like he was cataloguing every word and action, but when it came up later it wasn't to rake him over the coals for losing focus, or suboptimal performance with a handgun. It usually came back in the form of a little gadget Daniel'd eyed in a souvenir shop left on his desk, or a snack that he'd been craving slipped into his bag when he headed off to work. 

He didn't just do it for Daniel, either-- Maxwell once mentioned, in passing, a discontinued ice cream flavor at the supermarket and a week later she found a plastic container of it perfectly reproduced and labeled for her, in the freezer. _Wanted to test the ice cream maker at work_ , Warren claimed, but more than anything he'd lost a Marcus Cutter to anticipate, and a bigger picture to work for, so he simply turned all that attention and devotion to the people around him.

Never stopped being smug about it, though. 

"Listen," Daniel says, "I know how Teller looks and acts and talks, but he's sharp. He can tell there's something off about you. Maybe you should stop doing shit like having Maxwell steal his phone."

"She _borrowed_ it," Kepler argues, "to disable the Goddard tracking and tapping processes in the background. We spent a lot of time and energy to drop off their radar, and I don't need them inviting trouble."

"Well, he thinks you're shady, so watch it."

Smirking at him, Kepler raises both brows. "Sure he's not just used to being top dog in your unit and now he's intimidated on another man's turf?"

Over the last year and a half, Daniel had come to the conclusion that Teller has great instincts, and absurd luck. Luck that is neither good nor bad, simply the kind that means the strangest possible thing is likely to happen to him at any given moment, as if the universe decides his fate based on comedy potential instead of anything reasonable like the consequences of his choices. 

Of course it means he'd end up in a house as a guest of Warren Kepler, possibly the one man on earth who is more annoying and more of a weirdness magnet than Simon Teller himself. Makes sense they'd butt heads. "That's possible too," Daniel concedes.

"Why _don't_ you tell them anything? You talked to me and Maxwell all the time."

"I'm not," Daniel begins, but he cuts himself off before trying again. "I don't want to do that again," he says, more firmly this time. "The thing where everyone I know is from work and everything I do is work-related and work is the only thing that matters."

"You won't." Kepler says it with confidence, but his gaze is distant, uncharacteristically grim. "NYPD salary and benefits aren't _nearly_ enough to warrant that." 

He stands up, pushing his seat back under the desk and heading for his bathroom. Daniel follows him in, at once deeply, achingly familiar with the space and a somewhat unwelcome stranger in it, if the sideways look Kepler shoots him is any indication.

Of course, Daniel hasn't been in the room at all for about-- well, six months. He used to spend quite a lot of time in it, using Kepler's incredibly expensive waterfall shower, often with the man himself. Maxwell sneaks in to use it too, when Warren's not home-- he allows it under the condition that no one snoops through his belongings and that they use their own shampoo. 

"You okay?" Daniel asks, hovering by the door while Kepler diligently brushes his teeth for the recommended two straight minutes. 

"Mm." Spit. "Why?"

"You got serious all of a sudden."

"I'm always serious."

"But," Daniel presses, watching Kepler run hot water, "when I said I didn't want to do the Goddard thing again."

Warren takes a while to answer, lathering up his face from a bar of soap and rinsing it away with a washcloth. Then he squeezes out the cloth, using it to pat his face dry and wipe down his neck, then behind his ears. Daniel's known him for nearly ten years and for every time that he's seen Kepler go through this routine, he hasn't deviated. Finally, after he drains the water and hangs the cloth back up to dry, he turns to Daniel and gives him a thoughtful look. "I thought you liked it," he says. "The way things were at Goddard."

Kepler had, after all, tried _very hard_ to make sure his team enjoyed themselves as employees of Goddard Futuristics. 

"I did," Daniel reassures him, giving him a lopsided smile. "It's not what I want now, though." 

"No?"

"I'm a different person, in a new context."

Warren huffs. He moves for the door, sidestepping Jacobi and turning off his bathroom lights. "That you are, Daniel."

"Don't think I can't tell when you're jealous," Daniel says, dogging Kepler's heels across the room toward his desk.

"I don't get jealous."

"You don't like it when I call Teller 'boss'?" 

Kepler's prepared for it, this time, and doesn't react at all as he sits on the edge of his mattress and gives Daniel the _I'm waiting for you to leave_ look. 

No such luck; Daniel sits down right next to him. "Or is it the 'sir' that's getting to you," he says.

At one time in his life, Jacobi wouldn't dare to press an issue beyond what Kepler was willing to give him, but in the last few years, once they'd discarded all the ranks and formalities, he's come to relish it. "None of it is getting to me," Warren says evenly. He glares, warning Daniel that while he might not have any intention of committing gruesome acts of violence against his friend, he's creative enough to inflict other acts of cruel and unusual psychological torment.

"I call him Sarge sometimes, too," Daniel says.

"How cute," Warren grinds out through clenched teeth, "A sergeant."

"Warren..."

" _What._ "

Daniel covers the back of Warren's hand, the prosthetic one, with a palm. The aggravated expression on Kepler's face dissolves instantly into pure confusion which, considering how much being confused enrages him, always looks a little angry. _Wind him up,_ Daniel thinks, _watch him go._ "Not to sound like a cheesy ex," he says, grinning, "but let's get back together." 

Warren doesn't move, his mouth hanging very slightly open as he processes the words. He may have stopped breathing, but he doesn't pull his hand away. After a while, he clears his throat. "This shutdown won't last," he says, finally, slowly and with great difficulty. "Sooner or later, we're just gonna end up back where we were." 

"Well, y'know what I think?" Daniel brushes his thumb over Warren's knuckles, which is a dirty trick, really, considering how long both of them have gone without that kind of familiar, casual touch. "I think if we all come together and handle this thing like we give a shit about each other in a country that can do things competently," he says, " _maybe_ we'll be back where we were in a few months. Think we're gonna do that?"

"Not a chance."

"So let's give it a shot." Daniel meets Warren's eyes, very briefly, before looking back down at their hands. "It's crazy that we get this much free time, and we should use it." 

Kepler's voice is strained, tightly controlled. "What's the rush this time around?" 

"Listen, if we'd gotten together before we got back to earth, imagine all the zero-G stuff we could've done." He knew that would set Kepler off, and the groan Warren lets out as he buries his face in Jacobi's shoulder vibrates through his chest. "I just think there was a real missed opportunity 'cause we dragged our feet." Daniel lets his cheek drop to the crown of Warren's head, flattening the dark hair in a familiar, easy gesture. Softer: "Besides, you're the one who says we should never make the same mistake twice." 

"That's a very," Warren mumbles, "compelling point." 

"Why _did_ you end it? And don't give me that stuff about our schedules. I know there's more." 

Warren hums, lifting his head to meet Daniel's eyes. "I didn't want to deprive you of options," he answers.

"I didn't want options," says Jacobi. 

"I looked over our schedules dozens of times trying to figure it out, Daniel. You wouldn't have been able to change your hours, and I couldn't either." He shrugs, pulling away as if remembering all the reasons he'd broken it off in the first place. "We were seeing each other an average of twenty minutes a _week_." 

"I mean, I could've just quit the job."

"Don't quit a job you love for my sake. I wouldn't."

"Warren, you literally quit the best job you ever had for me." Daniel gestures vaguely in a way that he hopes properly conveys that he means 'the entire world'. "Us."

"That's a little different."

"I would've quit the damn job in a heartbeat. It's not like I need it." 

"That would've been stupid," Kepler shoots back.

"Well, maybe I'm not very smart." 

"Don't quit your job," Kepler deadpans. "You'd burn the house down out of boredom." 

"Stop cutting and running every time things get hard," Daniel retorts.

It takes him a second, but Kepler swallows, eyes fixed on Jacobi's face. "I'm still here," he says, "aren't I?"

"Then just for however long this lasts." Maybe feelings don't convince Warren, but convenience usually does. "We're gonna be cooped up for a long time, we could blow off some steam..."

The hope dies when Kepler shakes his head, shoulders drawing back and his expression shuttering. "It was hard enough," he says softly, "ending it the first time."

Someone nicer, when confronted with that kind of vulnerability from Warren 'Sex is Just a Means to an End and You Would Do Well Not to Involve Your Emotions' Kepler, might find it in themselves to be gentle with him. Daniel, who is not that man, leans back on his hands and makes a face at him. "So you didn't even _want_ to break it off," he says with an incredulous laugh. "See, all this time, I thought you were using the schedule thing as an excuse to get rid of me."

Warren's expression closes off completely. "If I wanted to get rid of you," he snaps, "I wouldn't leave a body."

"God," Daniel deadpans, pressing his hand to his chest, "you're so romantic."

"Daniel."

"I'm not some dog you have to rehome when you think I'm not getting enough playtime, Warren." Daniel waits for the idea to dawn, Kepler's expression turning appalled when he realizes that that's exactly what he'd been doing. "We'll work it out," he adds, grinning as he leans in and drops his chin to Warren's shoulder, "unless you think we're not smart enough to do that."

"I suppose," Kepler sighs, sounding very put-upon for the way he shifts to accommodate Daniel, turning towards him so they can fit more comfortably against each other, "one of us has to be the brains of this operation."

"Don't worry," Daniel quips, "I've got enough for both of us."


	5. Chapter 5

Years out from Goddard, Kepler sleeps lightly. When Jacobi sits up, eyes adjusting to the slats of sunlight sneaking in between blackout curtains as he rubs the sleep from them, he looks over his shoulder hoping to catch sight of Warren still drooling on his pillow. Instead, he's met with the unsettling sight of those frosty grey eyes opening in one smooth movement. No gentle, hazy minute to adjust to wakefulness for _this_ ex-black ops agent.

Daniel doesn't move while Kepler's gaze slides off him and around the room, going down his mental checklist before he exhales, deep and slow, and pushes himself upright. "Morning to you too," Daniel says, grinning wide when Kepler shuffles close and slings an arm around his waist, stubble scratching his bare shoulder as he presses a soft kiss to the side of Daniel's neck.

"Sleep alright?" Kepler murmurs, eyes closing as he allows himself to relax into the lazy morning he seems determined to have, weight slumping into Daniel's side. His head drops, temple resting against the ball of his shoulder. 

"Yeah," Jacobi tells him, one hand coming up to pull his fingers through Warren's hair, smoothing it down where it sticks up and back into place where it's been smushed flat against his head. "Just great."

"Mm. Good."

"You?"

Kepler yawns. His prosthetic hand slips under the hem of his shirt to scratch his belly. "Never better."

"Y'know," Daniel says, "Bob and Teller were pretty curious about the kimchi in the basement fridge."

"It's real good stuff." Kepler and his sous-chef have the sort of relationship that he had with Jacobi, when they were both still at Goddard. The absolute trust and respect that comes from days of working in close proximity, through stressful dinner services and daily emergencies. He's babysat her kid, and she once made a cake for Jacobi's birthday. If Daniel didn't know Kepler as well as he does, he might've been jealous. 

"We should break into it before they turn out like the radishes," Daniel quips.

After a moment, Kepler lifts his head, expression horrified. "Are the radishes still--"

"I tossed 'em last night."

Relaxed again: "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Kepler makes a disgruntled sound when Daniel pulls away to rearrange them both, but he obligingly unfolds his legs and props himself against the pillows to let the other man sit between his knees. He waits for Daniel to lean back into his chest and loops his arms around his waist before asking, "You want kimchi fried rice for breakfast?"

"You know I love it when you make the whole house smell like spicy fermented cabbage," Jacobi answers, his hands finding Kepler's where they're clasped loosely in front of his navel. He pries them apart to claim them for himself, and cheerfully ignores Kepler's quiet scoff, the _Clingy_ , whispered against the back of his neck.

"Maxwell won't be happy," Kepler says. He drops his chin to Daniel's shoulder and watches him poke at the prosthetic, turn it palm-up in his hand to play with the articulation of his joints. 

"She's still gonna eat it," Daniel points out, "as long as you put the cheese." 

She really shouldn't; Maxwell _likes_ spice and dairy, but her tolerance for both is pitiful. Kepler usually has more than enough food in the refrigerator to accommodate her but much like the cat, who doesn't know how to use a computer yet insists on using it with Kepler, she insists on eating the same thing as everyone else. "If you can even call low moisture mozzarella cheese," Kepler sighs, reclaiming his hands to pull Daniel more firmly against his chest and press a kiss to the sensitive skin under his ear.

"Alana can have a little gastrointestinal distress," Daniel says, laughing, "as a treat."

"Lovelace is coming over later, too. I'll make extra."

"Didn't they shut down the NBA?"

"She dug up some old NCAA tapes and thought it'd be fun to watch them together." Kepler grins when Daniel sits up on his knees and turns around, straddling his hips as he settles into his lap. "Turns out we were both in Indianapolis to watch the 1997 Championship game," he says, completely unfazed by the change in their positions, and Jacobi's hands coming up to cup his jaw. "My junior year, her freshman."

Daniel hums, relaxing into the arms intuitively curled around the small of his back to brace him as he pulls Kepler forward. "We even have a VCR player?"

"That's a very good question," Warren mumbles against his lips, "to which I think the answer is 'no'. Might just roast my lambchops and call it a day."

"Giving up?" Daniel hums, kissing his way up the line of Kepler's jaw. "That doesn't sound like you."

"And I'm pretty sure Maxwell can digitize them." Kepler's shoulders draw up when Daniel closes his teeth not-so-gently on the lobe of his ear, a wordless reminder to stop withholding information as his first response to _everything_. "She's got equipment to convert old security footage," he adds, leaning away but unable to go far with a whole Jacobi sitting on his legs, "but it might take a couple days."

Daniel follows him back, hands pushing against Kepler's chest as his shoulders hit the mattress and Daniel's weight shifts to his palms, pinning him to the bed. "See," he says, teasing, with one hard, slow grind of his hips, "you could've said that first, and then I wouldn't have to do this to you for not telling me things."

Kepler blinks, slow and deliberate, his hands resting lightly on Daniel's thighs. "Well," he drawls, looking extraordinarily unbothered by the threat, "who knows how many times I'll need to be reminded before I break _that_ habit."

This might, Daniel considers, count more as positive reinforcement than anything else. He doesn't get up, regarding the crooked grin on Kepler's face with a sigh. Daniel isn't weak, but Warren could bench-press him if he wanted to; he's strong enough to throw Daniel halfway across the room if something spooked him enough, but all signs point to Warren Kepler being perfectly content to lie back and annoy Daniel Jacobi first thing in the morning. 

"You," Daniel grumbles, "are really lucky you're cute."

* * *

After a shower and a shave, Kepler does end up making kimchi fried rice for breakfast, and Maxwell is predictably grumpy about it. She has a big glass of orange juice in front of her, rapidly disappearing, but she also doesn't stop spooning heaping mouthfuls of the violently red fried rice covered liberally with gooey cheese into her mouth. 

"Its just not fair," she says, dabbing at her lips with a napkin, her forehead bright with sweat, "that something that tastes this good can mess you up so much."

"You can stop at any time," Daniel reminds her from the sink as he scrubs down the dishes and utensils he'd used. "There's waffles in the freezer." Warren leans on the counter beside him, idly cutting slices off an apple and eating them right off his paring knife. Having done his share of tasting while he cooked, any desire to actually eat the food had evaporated for him.

"This doesn't really feel like breakfast food," Bob comments from beside Maxwell, "but y'know what? I could eat it every day. It would go amazing with a hangover."

Teller's face is bright red, spice tolerance apparently much lower than Maxwell's. He doesn't stop eating, though, and there's a glass of milk by his plate which he takes huge gulps of every few bites. Bob occasionally gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Try the kimchi by itself, too," Kepler suggests to Bob. He turns to Jacobi as he talks, nudging him in the ribs to give him a slice of the apple. "We make some in-house, but this batch is from my sous-chef's mother. It hits a little different, since she doesn't have to worry about FDA regulations."

"I'd eat this on a pizza," Bob says, sampling a bit. "Is that like, sacrilege? Putting it on a pizza?"

"We could try it sometime. Pizza's pretty simple, and I have all the ingredients here." 

"Or you could stop making things I shouldn't eat," Maxwell whines, gasping for air as she pushes her plate away from her, every grain of rice on it gone. She chugs her orange juice, then slips off the seat to bring her dishes to the sink. Once there, she accepts an apple slice of her own from Kepler, who drops the core into the trash and starts peeling a clementine. "You're so lucky we don't have any place to be."

"I think _you're_ the one who's lucky we don't have any place to be," Daniel shoots back, trying not to laugh as he makes room for Maxwell. He nudges Warren on the arm, prompting him to move over and also to give him a slice of his orange. He ignores the look Bob shoots him, the O of surprise he makes with his mouth at the sight of them in each other's space. 

Then Bob smiles. "What's your favorite pizza, chef?"

"Don't get him started," Maxwell warns him, too late.

A wide, shit-eating grin stretches across Kepler's face. "Oh," he says, "deep dish. I'm from Chicago, after all."

Bob makes an appropriate sound of disgust, a loud groan at the same time Jacobi cuts in with, "He doesn't like deep-dish, he just says it to make New Yorkers mad."

"Actually," Teller pipes up, coming up for air from finishing off the last of his milk, " _I_ think deep dish is _fine_."

Bob reels back as if punched, jokingly scrambling away from Teller with a wounded look on his face.

"Whoa, really?" Jacobi stares at him, brows raised. "You're like, the New Yorkiest New Yorker I know."

"I lived in Chicago for a couple years when I was small," Teller explains. He looks at Kepler, expression open and friendly in what passes for his attempt at an olive branch, and gives him a crooked smile. The effect is only slightly diminished by the fact that his nose is runny and his cheeks are still flushed from the combination of kimchi and gochujang. "You could say I've got a special place in my heart for the Windy City, and by proxy, their horrible pizzas."

"Is that so," Kepler says, interest piqued. "How'd you end up in New York?"

"Turns out my dad had a family on the side before he just bailed one day." Teller wipes his nose on the back of his hand and delivers the words casually, anticipating the awkwardness that always seems to follow this story. "So, my mom picked up and moved us to the city to live with her parents." 

Bob, Midland and Maxwell are looking at him with sympathy, but Kepler just gives him an understanding nod, and a stack of napkins. 

Teller grins at him. "Turned out for the best, I think." 

"You remember him?" asks Warren, expression shaped to that perfect mask of innocent curiosity that always sets Jacobi and Maxwell on edge. This time is no exception; both of them are instantly wary, their eyes on his face, waiting for a bomb to drop.

Teller just shakes his head. "I was too young. Barely remember Chicago at all."

"That's too bad."

* * *

Kepler's phone buzzes just before noon and he moves with exaggerated nonchalance for the front door from his kitchen, hoping to reach it before whoever's on the other side opens it into a living room currently occupied by Bob, Teller, Jacobi and Maxwell all lined up on the couch. Maxwell's teaching them the ins and outs of Super Smash Bros, Jacobi as her begrudgingly indulgent test dummy. 

Unfortunately, all four of them look over as a key turns in the lock and it swings open. Lovelace, her nose and mouth hidden behind a cloth mask and a camouflage-colored army bag slung over her shoulder, raises a plastic bag to shove it into Kepler's face as he approaches. "I brought tortillas for nachos," she says cheerfully, just as she registers the grimace on his face. 

She glances over his shoulder to meet eyes with Jacobi, who's trying to signal for her to take cover, then Maxwell, who's trying very hard not to laugh. Lovelace registers the other two last, arching her brows at Teller and Bob's confused expressions. "Oh," she says. _Those guys look familiar,_ she whispers to Kepler.

"You-- the reporter?!" Teller exclaims, scrambling for her name. 

"Sobrero," Kepler says, pointedly meeting her eyes as he delves into his encyclopedic mental catalogue of all their aliases and alternate identities. "Tatiana Sobrero."

"Long time no see!" Teller squints at Lovelace, pushing himself to his feet to greet her properly before Kepler can whisk her out of the room. "You know each other?" he asks, approaching with a fist extended, which she cheerfully bumps with her own. To Bob, who catches her eye and taps on his chest with his fist, she mirrors the gesture. 

"Midland, why didn't you say anything?" Bob complains to Jacobi, throwing his arm around Daniel's neck and shaking him. 

"I only know her through Warren," Jacobi answers. They haven't rehearsed this scenario or anything, but Lovelace has shown herself to be good at rolling with the punches and playing along. "He was the one who suggested the ride-along."

"Tati's an old friend," Kepler says smoothly, as much for her benefit as Teller and Bob's, "her partner's my business partner. We get together to watch Knicks games sometimes, but she's just over to have dinner."

"In a pandemic?" Teller asks.

"Don't worry, I'm clear."

"How do you know that for sure?"

Kepler and Lovelace look at each other. 

"She caught it in January while reporting in Italy," he says, clapping her on the shoulder and pulling her inside. Kepler learned a long time ago that a man can say anything with enough confidence and be believed, doubly so since neither Teller nor Bob know the first thing about microbiology. "Still immune," he adds, just in case.

"Uh, yeah." Lovelace allows Kepler to guide her toward the stairs. "Zucca cappelleti con prosciutto."

 _Are you fucking kidding me,_ Kepler mouths at her.

 _Shut up_ , Lovelace whispers back, as soon as Teller's out of earshot.

"Alana," Kepler calls over his shoulder, halfway up the steps, "mind if we use your equipment?"

"Just don't break anything," she shouts back.

As soon as they get into Maxwell's room, Kepler picks his way carefully around a few piles of scraps to reach her closet and dig out an old TV, a small one with a slot for tapes significantly smaller than a VHS. He also grabs a jumble of cables, a blank thumb drive from Maxwell's desk drawer, and some kind of adapter. Lovelace hovers in the doorway, still loaded down with the goods she'd brought, and follows Kepler as he marches to his own room and chooses a corner with an outlet to set everything up. 

Lovelace lowers her bags to the floor next to him, and waits for him to take the first tape. "What're those two doing here?" she asks while he squints at the 'NCAA regionals, 1999' label and then sets it aside in search of a more interesting movie.

"Jacobi's unit got furloughed," Kepler answers absently, picking up a cassette with 'Izzy 7th Birthday' written on it, "and they needed a place to crash. What's this?"

"My mom heard we would be digitizing old tapes and asked me to bring some home movies along." Lovelace moves on to his earlier point before he can lodge a complaint about the extra work, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Kepler to help him find the '97 championship game. "I guess that makes sense," she says. "Mr. Crippling Gambling Addiction and Mr. Divorced Twice Before Thirty didn't sound like they had savings."

"How do you remember that but not their faces?"

"I brought a voice recorder to the ride-along, not a camera."

"Alright, this is it." Kepler pats the little television as it begins to play, video of a young Lovelace with her team trailing into an auditorium and taking their seats in the stands. "We'll marathon the home movies after," he says.

"How long will it take to convert?"

"However long these tapes take to play."

Hours, then. Possibly days. Lovelace heaves herself to her feet, tightening her ponytail as she heads for his dresser and digs through it for a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt. "Great. I'm gonna use your gym, then."

"Bring your own clothes next time," he says, though she's done this often enough that they both know it's not a real complaint. Kepler keeps his eyes on the TV while Lovelace ducks into his bathroom to change. He's muted the video, but there's a brief flash of little Izzy pulling one of her friends into a headlock, mouth open and eyes closed, laughing until she's breathless. 

Someone passes the camera to eighteen-year-old Lovelace, who fiddles with it for a second before she finally turns the lens toward the court.

"And then," says the Lovelace from present-day, tugging him up by the sleeve of his shirt when she returns, "I'm gonna use your stupid fancy shower."

* * *

Bob drops his controller to his lap as Maxwell, playing Pikachu, kicks Samus off the edge of the arena one final time to win the game. He was the last one standing, Jacobi and Teller knocked out much earlier in the round, leaving the two youngest to duke it out. "So," Bob says, leaning hard on Jacobi's shoulder while a victory animation plays for Maxwell and she sets up a new round, "you and Warren talked things out?"

"Yeah, actually." Daniel looks to his right, catching Maxwell's eye. Bob's pretty sharp, too, especially when it comes to how people work together and fit together; It doesn't escape her notice.

"It's wild that you haven't mentioned any of it at work." Teller sighs, raising his arm to let Bob back under it. His hand is closed in a loose fist, knuckles resting against Bob's collar. "I talk about my relationship problems _all the time_."

"And the conclusion we come to every time," Daniel points out, "is that women should stop dating you."

Maxwell catches Jacobi's eye, her expression skeptical. _Women?_ she mouths. 

Teller gasps, mock-offended. "It's not my fault that my dangerous lifestyle and boyish good looks are irresistible to the ladies."

Daniel looks over his shoulder to exchange another look with Maxwell. There isn't a world where Teller's sharp features could really be described as _boyish_ , but no one fights him on it. 

"Our guess," Bob chimes in, grinning, "is that they see how messed up Teller's life is and they think they can save him from himself before they realize that he's just like this."

"I thought you were dating each other," Maxwell says. 

Bob's face is hidden from Teller's view, but he gives Maxwell a long-suffering smile that she recognizes from her early days with the SI-5, mostly apparent when Kepler would throw an arm around Daniel's shoulders and call him one of their sarcastic, flirty petnames, like 'ray of sunshine' or 'good right hand'. It's the kind of thing coworkers apparently do when their life is entirely wrapped up in the job, in each other, and certain professional boundaries are both blurred and strictly maintained. 

_Not this again,_ Maxwell thinks. 

"What, me and Bob?" Teller gives Bob a quick squeeze, his arm tightening briefly around his shoulders. "Naw, we're just roommates. And co-workers." After a moment of thought, Teller's eyes fixed on the crown of Bob's head, he looks up again. "And y'know what?" he adds, decisive. "He's my best friend, but I can see why you might think otherwise."

"Aw," Bob coos, "you're my best friend, too."

Jacobi snorts. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Maxwell punches him in the shoulder. "No, Mark, they're cute!" 

"Yeah," Bob repeats, and he's just close enough to reach out and tweak Daniel's ear. "We're cute." 

Daniel swats his hand away, shuffling farther away from Bob to lean on Maxwell's shoulder. "They're the only ones who can put up with each other for extended amounts of time," he says.

"And," says Teller, "what's that but true friendship?"

"It's why me and Mark are friends," Maxwell says, nodding, "for sure."

" _Hey!_ "


	6. Chapter 6

Lovelace takes a breather after her third set on the weight machine, wiping her face and neck on the towel Kepler had tossed to her before they started working out. He's on the treadmill, set to an uncharacteristically easy pace. Warm-up, he'd claimed, though Lovelace is moderately sure that he just wants to save his breath for talking. "Isn't there a gym in your building?" he asks, and most people would take that as an oblique suggestion that she use it instead of his. 

Much as he complains, though, Kepler's always maintained that equipment should be used. If anything, he's quietly gathering intel with the question, the way he does when 'So what the hell is going on in your house that you're fleeing to mine?' is a little _too_ straightfoward even for him.

"We shut it down early," Lovelace answers, and while she usually likes working out with her neighbors, the major drawback of communal spaces during a pandemic has finally made itself clear. "Renée says it doesn't look good if I get to use it and no one else does, so it's been about two weeks since I got a workout in."

"That's Minkowski for you," Kepler answers lightly. "Maybe you can bring some of the weights up to your apartment, if no one's using them anyway."

Sighing, Lovelace stands up and heads for the pullup stand for a quick set. "I'm not that desperate yet," she says, "but I'm getting there. She says it's cluttered enough already."

Kepler hits a button on the treadmill to ramp his speed up a tick. He makes a face at her. "You gonna be over a lot?"

"Aw," Lovelace retorts, "you didn't miss me?"

"I missed you," Kepler reassures her.

"I just had to get out of the apartment for a while."

"Something happen?"

"It's a lot of things." Lovelace drops to the floor and picks up her water bottle, holding it absently in her hands as she fiddles with the cap. "We've been cooped up before, but the Hephaestus was _huge_. And she's got baby fever, which I didn't realize was actually a thing?"

Kepler arches his brows. "In _this_ economy?" he asks, fully incredulous. He takes a few seconds to shore up his breath, still running. "My sous says the lockdown is making her wish she _didn't_ have a kid."

"I guess it's different since we don't actually _have_ any," Lovelace points out. "She just keeps showing me YouTube videos of really adorable babies and hinting that it would be fun."

"Do you _want_ babies?"

"They can be cute." Lovelace grimaces. "But I had a bunch of baby cousins and it turns out I'm not a fan of being peed and thrown up on."

"I hear you."

"I like having time for myself," she says. Then, while he continues to run: "You like kids, though."

"I do."

"Wouldn't've guessed if I didn't know you." She gestures around the basement, indicating his meticulous cleaning habits and also the obscene price of most of his furniture. The thought of toys scattered all around the space, Legos underfoot, and all the beautiful upholstery covered in spit and crumbs makes her shudder. "You keep everything so neat."

"Well," he quips, "considering how many people have bled on me, piss and vomit is the least of my worries." 

" _Ugh_."

"Blood doesn't come out in the wash," he explains. 

"Do _you_ want babies?" she asks.

Kepler hits the red button on his treadmill, and takes a long drink from his own bottle of water as he slows and comes to a stop. He picks up his towel and wipes down his face with it, leaving it draped over the top of his head. "Not really in the books for me," he says lightly, "I don't think."

Lovelace stares at him for a second. _Interesting_ phrasing. 

Then, never one to let go of a juicy bone, she points at him. " _Did_ you want one?" 

"I wouldn't have said no to one," he concedes. Then, with a mischievous smile, "Or three." 

"¿Por qué no bebés?" 

"Jacobi and Maxwell hate kids." 

"And what's Maxwell got to do with it?" 

"Well, she lives here too." 

"They can adjust," Lovelace points out. 

More firmly: "It's not gonna happen." 

"You ever bring it up with them or did you just decide that for yourself?" Given what she knows of how he'd ended things with Jacobi several months ago, it's a fair question to ask, and she sticks out her tongue at his mutinous glare. "Also, is Jacobi going by Midland at home now? Midcobi?" 

"Stick to Midland while you're here."

"Is that why you broke up? Clearing the way to settle down with a babymama?"

The thought of it makes them both snort, and Kepler snaps his towel in her direction. Not far enough to reach, but so that she can feel a few droplets of sweat hit her calf, which is gross enough that she throws her towel at his face in retaliation. 

Kepler catches it, but one end manages to swing forward around his grip and smack him on the cheek. "We're back together, actually." At her grin, he gingerly hangs her towel onto one of the treadmill's handlebars and steps off the machine altogether as Lovelace moves to take it over. "As of last night."

She doesn't let him pass without a punch to the shoulder, as much congratulations as reprimand. "Oh," she says, "so he finally knocked some sense into you."

"Honestly, we should've had that conversation a lot sooner." Stretching his arms, Kepler takes Lovelace's place at the chest press. He lobs her bottle to her, catching the one she tosses back to him, and takes a long drink. "He said he thought I was making an excuse to get rid of him," he mutters, sounding immensely annoyed. "I would've reconsidered if he'd given me any resistance at all when I first brought it up, so I just thought he was relieved to get out of it."

"For six months?"

"We're _really_ good at not talking about things."

So much of their communication hinged on taking each other at their word; as often as Daniel insists on dragging answers out of him, he just as frequently doesn't question Kepler's decisions-- especially when he might not like the answer. "You'd think after knowing each other for nine years," Lovelace says, "you'd be better at communication."

Kepler gives her a pointed look. "And when are you going to _communicate_ to Minkowski that you're not on the same page about babies?"

Lovelace groans. Should've known he'd have some ulterior motive for the uncharacteristic openness. At some point, Kepler learned that he couldn't just _tell_ Lovelace things and have her believe him, he had to lead her through his entire thought process before she's willing to see things his way. 

It frustrates Minkowski to no end, the two of them often pausing in the middle of a heated discussion to drink some water and then reconvene with cooler heads. She's convinced that Lovelace doesn't trust her and says so, often. Lovelace would point out that she does this to _everyone_ , including people she trusts, and _that_ would lead to a fight about why she grills her partner like a stranger before agreeing to anything, up to and including which restaurant they should go to for an anniversary.

Still, Kepler always seems happy enough to lay out his case, trusting that at some point she'd get tired of questioning him. He turned out to be right; once Lovelace established that Kepler makes thoughtful, deliberate choices with consequences all weighed and accepted, she had a much easier time rolling with whatever he could throw at her. 

Kepler once pointed out that she probably shouldn't take the same approach with her girlfriend as she does the man who once shot her in the head, though he'd also pointed out that considering everything Lovelace has been through, her deep-seated trust issues aren't _that_ difficult to work around and they could probably meet each other halfway. 

_Then_ he said that he'd start charging for more relationship counseling, and Lovelace told him to shut up and mind his own business.

"We should switch households," she grumbles. "Then you two can play with babies as much as you want, and I can have sleep and free time."

"Ye-ah," Kepler drawls, "I'm just gonna go have a baby with your girlfriend. You definitely want that."

Lovelace sighs again, finally looking down at the treadmill dashboard and adjusting the incline before she starts her run. "Okay," she says, "when you put it like that."

" _Talk_ to her."

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

"Full disclosure," Maxwell says at dinner, poking at the contents of her plate, "I'm getting a little tired of mushrooms."

Not being able to use them up in the restaurant means that Kepler's had to use them up at home. It hasn't even been a week since he started putting his mushrooms in _everything_. Caramelized with onions or grilled with vegetables on a sandwich, pickled into a condiment, roasted as a side, creamed into soup, pulverized into dip... He could only give away so many mushrooms to the neighbors before they began to politely decline them. 

He also refused to let them go to waste, calling up his contacts to find out where he can donate them in lieu of letting them toughen up and rot on their substrate. Food pantry options are a bit limited, but there turned out to be a few soup kitchens around the city who were happy to take them off his hands. Not all of them, though.

"There are only so many ways you can make mushrooms," Kepler concedes. Then as an aside to Lovelace, who is relishing her lambchops and her mushrooms: "And Alana's picky now."

Maxwell, famously the least picky eater of the SI-5, whose food crimes are well-documented and often cited, gasps, offended. "I'm _not_ picky--"

"You are _soooo_ picky," Jacobi says, laughing. 

"I eat everything Kepl-- uh, Warren makes!" She indicates her mushrooms, which despite her earlier complaint, are disappearing fast. 

"Everything Warren makes is amazing," Bob points out. "That's why he's chef." 

"And that's how you ended up picky," Jacobi tells her, poking her in the ribs. "You had an opinion about the _croutons_ at that rest stop when we were roadtripping. You never used to have opinions about croutons."

"That's why I said we should've made him come with us." 

"Unfortunately," Kepler cuts in, looking supremely amused at the idea that Jacobi and Maxwell can _make_ him do anything, "I have actual responsibilities and can't take a roadtrip whenever the mood strikes me."

Bob grins, picking up a lambchop of his own by the long, curved bone. He takes a tentative bite, then a bolder one, quickly stripping the chop down to its calcified remains. "Do you get the VIP treatment at other restaurants, chef?" he asks, eyes shining.

"Oh, you bet. The industry is pretty tight."

"You got any recommendations?" Simon cuts in, meeting Kepler's calculating look with a smile of his own. "When this is all over, let me and Bob take you all out, huh?"

It's a smart move; any restaurant Kepler sits down at will probably give him a steep discount or plenty of extras on the house-- a courtesy he extends to other industry professionals at Thaleia. Teller won't have to think at all about where to go or what to order, since Kepler's recommendation is bound to be good, and he'd get much more value for his money. 

There are plenty of things Kepler dislikes about Teller-- not least of them the reckless things he does when his job is to dismantle explosives assisted by a man Kepler's far too attached to-- but he's a man who appreciates pragmatism. "Oh," Kepler says cheerfully, "plenty."

"Sorry to get off-topic," Lovelace cuts in, "but you two were roommates, right? When did that happen?"

"After the new year," answers Teller, "but before New York went nuts."

"Yeah. Then once we got furloughed, we got kicked out of the apartment."

"I'm pretty sure there'a a moratorium on evictions," says Lovelace, "and that's illegal."

Jacobi leans over, cupping his hand over his mouth and whispering a number into her ear. 

Her jaw drops, shock writ large on her face. "Yeah okay," she says after a second. "I get it. Rent that low, you'd usually be living in some wackjob's walk-in closet."

"Have any of you considered," Maxwell chimes in, "that New York City is hell?"

"First of all," Bob says, indignant, "New York is the best city in the world."

Lovelace extends her hand to him, and he high-fives it.

* * *

"The game," Kepler announces, shuffling the deck, "is Texas Hold'em." There's no true _head_ of a circular card table, but Kepler seems to hold court at its center anyway, his movements fluent and easy. Jacobi sits at his right and Maxwell at his left, Teller across with Bob and Lovelace on either side of him. Each player has a stack of ten chips in front of them, and other than Teller and Kepler, a red Solo cup filled with their choice of drinks. 

Bob and Maxwell have chosen to refill from a decanter of red wine between them, Jacobi from ice-cold bottles of Miller High-Life. Lovelace had raided the fridge and come up with her own concoction of vodka, cranberry juice and ginger ale. Kepler and Teller each have a lowball of single-malt whiskey, pointedly not his Balvenie, which Kepler claims is too expensive to waste on getting drunk for poker night. There's also a stacked plate of finger foods at each end of the table, ranging from sandwiches, to cuts of cured meats and cheeses, to veggies and dip. 

"The rules are as follows," he continues, dealing two cards to each person. "The cup of in front of you is worth ten sips. Each chip in front of you is worth one sip. However many chips you are left with at the end of a round is how many sips you may leave in your cup before refilling for the next round."

"If you have no chips left," Jacobi chimes in, "you chug your drink."

"Which is why I didn't break out the Balvenie."

"What happens if we run out of stuff to drink?" Teller asks. 

"I'll share mine," Bob quips, extending his cup over the table so Teller can take a sip of his wine. Teller gives it a thumbs-up before passing it back.

"That definitely won't happen," Maxwell answers, looking with fond exasperation at Kepler. "Every single one of us will be in the hospital for alcohol poisoning before we run out in this house."

Kepler, immediately defensive at the implication that he _chose_ to have this much alcohol in the house, raises his voice above the snickers. "Whenever cooks come to Thaleia," he explains, "they bring a case or two of beer for the crew. There's only so much we can drink or take home in a night, so I end up with most of it."

"We'll help you clear it out," Bob tells him, grinning. "Right, boss?"

"Got that right."

"Blinds," Kepler says, looking at Maxwell as she tosses two chips into the center of the table, and Bob throws one into the pot. He burns one card in the center of the table and then deals three face-up, retracting his hands and setting down the deck to pick up the chip they've designated as a dealer button. "Place your bets," he instructs the table, rolling it idly across his prosthetic knuckles as everyone checks their hands.

"Call," says Maxwell, waving dismissively to move them down the line.

Bob throws in another chip. "Call."

They go around the table, until Kepler folds his hand and leaves his cards face-down on the table. He burns another card, then deals the turn. "Well?"

Maxwell stares for a second at the cards on the table, then at her hand. She folds, putting her cards down and then propping her chin on the heel of her palm as Bob bets a single chip.

Lovelace calls that as well, then Teller, and Jacobi. Kepler burns another card, then deals the river. Bob bets two chips; Teller folds. Lovelace calls, and Jacobi folds. 

When Bob and Lovelace reveal their hands-- a flush and a full house, respectively-- Bob groans, slumping back in his seat. After everyone takes their required drinks, Maxwell redistributes the chips and grins as Kepler passes her the dealer button. He re-shuffles the deck after collecting all the cards, and hands it to Maxwell. 

"You're right, chef," Bob says to Kepler, reaching for his cards as they're dealt to him, "this _is_ more fun than online poker."

Kepler answers with a grin. "Glad you think so."

* * *

Three hours later and Bob is having significantly less fun, having shot right past tipsy into fully wasted. He's got his arms folded across the table, face-down in his elbows while the game moves on around him. Teller has one hand affixed to his shoulder, as if to make sure he's still breathing and possibly as an early warning for if he has to heave. Once in a while, Teller will rub his back, shake him awake and pass him a glass of water.

Teller himself is fine, loose-limbed and relaxed. He's been dealt several extraordinarily lucky hands, though he also pointed out that if they were playing for real money, he'd probably be on the worst losing streak of his life. His tolerance for alcohol is pretty impressive, barely fazed after half a dozen refills of his glass. 

Maxwell's stone-cold sober, to the extent that she takes sips of her wine just to quench her thirst once in a while. She's not even pretending not to cheat, betting in ways that would get her banned from every casino on earth. There are ways to mask the card-counting, and the sleight of hand, and she doesn't bother with any of it. Maxwell doesn't enjoy drinking all that much; the loss of control and coordination isn't her favorite sensation in the world, and she likes to sharpen her card skills whenever they play.

Kepler and Jacobi will usually call her out on it, both of them just as familiar with the tricks (though usually less successful at executing them), but they've silently agreed not to interfere, at least for tonight. Just to see how long it takes Teller and Bob to catch up. 

(They don't.)

Jacobi's had average luck, and is a normal amount of drunk. He'd built a decent tolerance drinking his way through a depressive stupor two years long after 2009, and has since then decided that he'd never again reach the point of nihilist-apathetic intoxication as he did when he met Kepler. Partly because he needed to be focused, sharp, always on point as an operative with the SI-5. Mostly because with a job, a little direction, and co-workers he genuinely liked and respected, he almost never felt the need to binge. 

Besides, when he did, there was so much to do at Goddard R&D that he could start a new project, get absorbed in that for however it took for the impulse to pass, and then head home to sleep.

Another round ends with Maxwell sweeping all of them. While she collects the chips and Jacobi re-shuffles the deck, Teller stretches his arms up, clasping his hands behind his neck. He lets out a yawn, downs the last of his whiskey, and taps Bob on the shoulder a few times to wake him up. 

"I think," Simon says, smiling mildly at Bob as the younger man sits up, bleary-eyed, just to fall against his shoulder, "it's about time for us to turn in."

Kepler has been betting conservatively, and subsequently drinking very little. He doesn't _get drunk_ very much at all, and usually has Jacobi around to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid when he does. Daniel discovered soon after they arrived back on earth that despite how often Kepler _had drinks_ on assignment, and how he and Maxwell had assumed drunk Kepler was just a more lax, warmer version of himself, that was just Warren skirting the edge of tipsy.

It's where he's at now, going at a rate of about one full refill per hour. Functional, warm, a little more likely to reach out and pat someone on the shoulder. Probably a hair less coordinated than his absolute peak, but no worse than after a long stakeout. Kepler stands with Teller to help Bob up, then steps back to make room for Jacobi, so the three of them can make their way to the basement. 

"I'm done too," Maxwell says, draining her nearly-full glass of wine. She'd refilled it once over the course of three hours, largely due to the blinds that she wouldn't have ante'd otherwise. She stands up, taking the empty plates while Lovelace collects glasses and Kepler disposes of the plastic cups.

"I'm still good for a while," Lovelace chimes in, sending Maxwell off with a fist-bump. "Gonna see if I can get a few more drinks into this guy."

"You can _try_ ," Kepler answers, hooking his foot into the leg of the seat next to him and pulling it out. "But you'll fail."

Their first day after all the dust settled from Goddard Futuristics, the SI-5 got well and truly _hammered_ on cheap sangria in that roomy Florida apartment they all shared in those first few months. 

Properly drunk, Kepler was downright clingy. Maxwell hypothesized, with the colonel draped over her shoulders, that some part of him had to know that his coordination was shot when he got drunk, and that he's vulnerable in a way akin to being drugged. He'll stick close to Jacobi and Maxwell, people he trusts, and it doesn't take much before he's mumbling about how much he appreciates them. It was distractingly cute the first time, and happens rarely enough that Daniel always looks forward to it.

Makes sense that Kepler wouldn't want to reveal to Teller and Bob and possibly even Lovelace that he can and _will_ turn tomato-red and wax emotionally about all the times they've saved each other's lives. He could barely meet Maxwell's eyes for days after that first time after taking her on a long, winding walk down memory lane, his head heavy on her shoulder. 'The way you tore down that firewall in Odesa,' he'd said, fervently sincere, 'was amazing. _You're_ amazing.'

Then he'd leaned up and pressed a kiss to her temple before settling back down to watch a funny video on his phone.

Kepler remembered everything with mortifying clarity, approaching her the next day while both of them nursed brutal hangovers. Before he could get a single word out, Maxwell had stopped him with a hand on his wrist. 'I think you're amazing too,' she'd said, trying not to laugh, and that was the last time he let Maxwell see him drunk.

* * *

Lovelace has the odd tendency to look sober for an astonishing number of drinks, and when she's close to her limit, she never seems more than tipsy-- a little friendlier, a little less coordinated, only a touch more uninhibited. She had seemed almost entirely unaffected by how much vodka she'd drank during hold 'em. 

Four rounds of Go Fish with Kepler later, she's chatty and flushed, all of her tells on clear display-- the way she tucks a curl of hair behind her ear when she has a particularly good card, or how she taps her heel against the floor when she's bluffing. If she notices that he's switched out her cocktail for water, she doesn't mention it. "You and Renée can share custody," she suggests, blearily looking at her hand. "Three?"

"Hah, no. Go fish."

"I just think--" Lovelace starts, squeezing her eyes shut, "you would like it. Having kids." She accepts the card that Kepler hands her, face-down until she adds it to her hand without even checking what it is. "You like teaching, and wrangling people, and telling crazy stories no one but a toddler would believe."

"I like having time and energy, too." Kepler flicks the corner of his right-most card. "Jack?"

"Here. I think she _actually_ wants kids." Lovelace groans, slumping back in her seat as her head lolls onto her shoulder. "Like, it _might_ be a dealbreaker that I don't. Maybe you can babysit. Every single day."

"Yes, leave a child in Uncle Warren's custody for extended periods. That's something she'll definitely want."

"You're _fine_. Three? Oh-- wait, I already asked for that. Umm... seven?"

"Go fish." Kelper purses his lips, passing her a card when she flaps her hand at the deck, not even bothering with coordination anymore. "And yet, you've ignored eight calls from her in the last two hours. Three."

Passing him the card, Lovelace heaves another long sigh. "I texted her back already. You two work together, she shouldn't have a problem with me being here."

"Oh, we barely even agree on business." Most of the time, they get along just fine. Minkowski's a fantastic front-of-house manager and sommelier, and she trusts Kepler to run the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, which he does. 

They butt heads every few days over how to run the restaurant, how Kepler's preference is to buy expensive ingredients (with white truffles in season, he points out that it would be _insane_ not to use them)-- thereby driving up the price of the food, thereby making it less accessible to the people who eat there. He argues that they can afford to fudge numbers on the bigger-ticket items and commit some minor tax fraud to skirt around the discrepancy. Naturally, Minkowski disagrees. 

"You're like that with everyone," Lovelace argues. "You _like it_ when people fight you."

As a person who hates having things pointed out about himself, Kepler makes a disgruntled sound. "And you're done for the night," he says.

"What? No! I can still win."

"I just go-fished you twice, and then asked for a card that you asked me for. Let's get you down before you embarrass yourself more."

"Asshole," Lovelace grumbles, but she doesn't fight him when he stands up and slings one of her arms across his shoulders. She can probably make it herself, tolerance built from years of drinking with fellow soldiers, but it never hurts to have a stable and mostly-sober person to make sure she makes it safely to a flat surface on which to sleep. "Isn't the guestroom taken?" 

"You can have mine. I changed the sheets this morning."

Her head rests heavily against his shoulder, and Lovelace leans into him as they make their way up the stairs. "W'bout you?"

"I'll figure it out," he answers, by which he means 'I'll harass Daniel'. "You know where everything is. If you need to hurl, the trashcan is by the bed."

Lovelace makes a small sound of agreement as Kepler flips on his light and hauls them both inside. "I'm gonna steal another one of your toothbrushes," she mumbles, knowing that he's the person who buys them in bulk and obediently changes them out approximately every six months. He and Minkowski always read the instruction manuals; the better to know which directions they can safely ignore, they claim, while following them to the letter. 

"I figured the last one was wearing out," he quips. 

"You know," says Lovelace, once Kepler dumps her into bed, "I always feel like she's pushing me to get on board with it. She's always pushing me to get on board with what she wants, but I say 'I want to go skydiving!' and she's like, 'No, Iz, I won't go skydiving with you'."

"She goes hiking and rock climbing with you," Kepler points out, grinning as she burrows under his blankets and makes herself comfortable. "You don't have to do _everything_ with your partner."

"And I'm okay with that." Now a very cozy lump of blanket, Lovelace peers at him over the edge. "It's just that it feels like I'm always the one who's getting on board with her stuff, and it's never the other way around. No one does that for _me_."

" _I_ went skydiving with you."

"It was like that in the beginning, too," Lovelace continues, ignoring him. "When I first arrived on the Hephaestus."

"You did show up with a bomb," Kepler points out.

"So would you," Lovelace retorts, "if you were smart."

"I showed up with a Daniel Jacobi. Same thing."

She laughs. "That's true."

"I can imagine things were tense," he says diplomatically.

"You know you were the first person to actually sit down with me and ask what I wanted?"

"Yeah."

"They didn't really care about what was going on with me. At least not until later, when you guys showed up, and then suddenly they acted like they always cared."

"Having a common enemy does tend to bring people together." Kepler takes a moment to weigh whether or not four years later is a good time to mention that he'd also used 'threat of falling directly into star doing insane navigational maneuver' intentionally both to gather intel and to bring the crews closer, and decides against it. "And I didn't get the impression," he says, "that anyone on the Hephaestus was in a place to be checking in with each other. Good communication saves lives, Captain."

"That's rich, coming from Colonel Need to Know."

"When my team wasn't operating at their potential," he says, "I asked what was wrong. Then we fixed the problem. When we didn't _communicate_ , in such instances as lingering trauma over alien doppelgangers, _bad things_ happen."

Lovelace snickers, throwing one arm over her eyes. She nestles into the mattress a little more, idly toeing off her socks and then nudging them off the bed and onto the floor. More seriously: "I wasn't really... that understanding either, at the time."

"The shuttle and bomb were your only leverage." Kepler fetches a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the dresser, tucking them under his arm. He grabs Lovelace a set of the same, dropping them on her face to prompt her to actually use them. "They could've trusted you, and gained your trust in return."

"Well, of course _you'd_ say that."

"Doesn't change the fact that you agree with me."

There's a brief lull in the conversation, while Kepler wanders politely into the bathroom to brush his teeth and Lovelace changes by wriggling out of her t-shirt and jeans under the blanket. When he comes back, her clothes are in a pile by the bed and she's scowling at him, swimming in his oversized clothes. "It's not like us gaining _your_ trust would've made a difference." 

"I've made plenty of exceptions before." Kepler eyes her clothes, wrestling with the impulse to pick them up and fold them before he squashes it down. Lovelace is an adult; she can have wrinkled clothes if she doesn't want to fold them. "It all depended on convincing Cutter that someone who was _supposed_ to be dead can be an asset to Goddard Futuristics alive."

"Would you honestly have made that exception for us?"

"Maybe for you."

Lovelace throws one of his many pillows at him. "Asshole. That's why I had to help Minkowski."

"I know." Catching it, Kepler brings it back to the bed, but instead of handing it over, he uses it to gently smother her until she wrestles it away from him. Just to remind her that he's still a threat. "You should talk to her," he adds, dodging the fist that comes swinging at his head in revenge. "I'm sure she doesn't _mean_ to make you feel taken for granted, so it doesn't occur to her that she might be. If she knew, she'd be able to make changes."

"In your expert opinion?"

"You and me, we think of all the ways it's possible to hurt people, and we do or don't do those things as it suits us." A shrug. "People who need to think of themselves as 'good' aren't always aware of the harm they do."

"We harm people deliberately, therefore we don't harm people accidentally?"

"Winner winner."

Lovelace sits up, pulling her hair free of its loose, messy ponytail. She eyes his pillow, its cream-colored silk case, and then flops back down to put her face on it, satisfied that she won't wake up with her hair frizzy and tangled. "She's not harming me."

"No, but do you want to let it reach that point?" At this point, Kepler's halfway across the room and inching toward his door. He lingers in the entrance, and flips off the light. "Things like this don't just clear up on their own," he says.

"I hate it when you're right!" Lovelace calls back.

"And yet you spent the whole day in my house! Good night, Captain." 

Lovelace's phone buzzes with a message just as Kepler shuts the door, the shadow of his legs moving away in the sliver of light beneath it. Instead of reading the message, Lovelace hits the 'call' button. Minkowski picks up after half a ring, sounding worried. 

"Just haven't been checking my phone," Lovelace tells her, muffled and sleepy. "I had a couple drinks with Kepler. Getting groceries tomorrow on the way back. Get a list from Eiffel and Hera, too, find out what he needs."

She listens to Minkowski shuffle through their apartment until she reaches a com unit. It buzzes, Hera's voice coming faintly over the line as Minkowski diligently records the list and sends it over. "It's done," she says quietly, and very gently. The way she always does, late at night, whether in person or on the phone. Like there's someone she might accidentally disturb if she spoke at a normal volume. "I'll see you tomorrow. Love you, Iz."

"Yeah." Lovelace grins, yawning loudly, but keeping the phone close to her ear. "Love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> [PS, join a W359/LSSP discord server!](https://discord.gg/xu56NS2q7P)


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